


Restless Things

by redhandsredribbons



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Canon Compliant, Canon Het Relationship, Case Fic, Character Development, Creepy, Emotionally Repressed, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fairy Tales, First Kiss, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Graphic Violence, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, Post Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Sexual Tension, Slash, Stockholm Syndrome, Stream of Consciousness, Unreliable Narrator, Wordcount: 30.000-50.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-12
Updated: 2012-08-13
Packaged: 2017-11-11 23:41:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/484184
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redhandsredribbons/pseuds/redhandsredribbons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Molly Hooper are each paid a visit after Sherlock's fall. John, a visit from a very alive Sherlock, who's investigating the bizarre murder that's drawn him back to London. Molly, a visit from a very alive Moriarty, who only plans on a quick little interrogation—until he wonders if Molly's not quite as boring as she seems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **TRIGGER WARNINGS:** Graphic violence, gore, torture, murder, verbal abuse, emotional abuse, physical abuse, manipulation, Stockholm Syndrome, sexual violence (non-overt), boundary violation, minor blood play, PTSD, depersonalization, derealization, depression, graphic autopsy, fatal arson, sexism, internalized heterosexism, ableism, ableist slurs as _Sherlock_ characters are wont to use, suicidal thoughts, shame, repression, loss of self, asphyxiation, explosives, fatal use of firearms, brief references to past drug use, needles, relationship communication problems, brief sizeist comments, brief references to body image issues, swearing
> 
>  **NOTES:** Please keep in mind that the characters' opinions and perceptions are not necessarily my own. Perspectives shift between Molly and John, every other chapter. The fic also includes explicit consensual sex. Written for the [2012 Johnlock Bigbang Challenge](http://johnlockbigbang.livejournal.com/). The fic title was inspired by the song [“Only Skin”](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6UUe3Q54qFg) by Joanna Newsom.
> 
>  **ART:** The official movie trailer for this fic is available to watch [here](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Arwk9faRDE8). There are also two soundtracks for the fic (mp3 downloads, ten songs each), a Johnlock fan mix [here](http://redhandsredribbons.tumblr.com/post/29322362373/a-john-watson-sherlock-holmes-johnlock-fan-mix), and a Molliarty fan mix [here](http://redhandsredribbons.tumblr.com/post/29322368368/a-molly-hooper-jim-moriarty-molliarty-fan-mix-to). Other Big Bang art is embedded into the fic within certain chapters.
> 
>  **DEDICATIONS:** To my beautiful [fuckyeahmolliarty](http://fuckyeahmolliarty.tumblr.com) Tumblr followers, and to [jimlokiarty](http://jimlokiarty.tumblr.com), my co-admin. To Rachel ([seaofglasz](http://seaofglasz.tumblr.com)), my lovely Johnlock RP partner. To [dearjimmoriarty](http://dearjimmoriarty.tumblr.com) for advice on reconciling fictional violence with anti-oppression goals. To my two phenomenal artists [kironomi](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/) and [Buckle](buckledrawsmanga.tumblr.com), who paired with me for the Bigbang Challenge and produced stunningly beautiful work. Finally, to the invaluable [vinib](http://vinib.livejournal.com/) for detailed fic editing and beta reading, as well as [sherlockbritpick](http://sherlockbritpick.tumblr.com), and [thefireinhiseyes](http://thefireinhiseyes.tumblr.com). Thank you, everyone.

  


["Restless Things" (Cover Art)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/479867) by [Buckle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Buckle/pseuds/Buckle)

  


# Restless Things

> _Nothing happens to me._

[December 15, 2009](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/15december), John Watson's blog

> _... I'm getting old. I bought something today. A cat. Yes. I am officially going to be a mad old cat woman. I'm 31 and I'm single and I've bought a cat._

[February 2, 2010](http://mollyhooper.co.uk/blog/02february), Molly Hooper's blog

 

> _John Watson: All these people he involves in his adventures... They're not safe._

> _Molly Hooper: John, my new friend Jim says that we all make our own choices in life. I don't think you should worry about others so much. Did I tell you about my new friend Jim?_

[March 28, 2010](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/28march), John Watson's blog

 

> _It was all a lie. Everything [Jim] said._

[April 2, 2011](http://mollyhooper.co.uk/blog/02april), Molly Hooper's blog

> _[Sherlock] was my best friend and I'll always believe in him._

[June 16, 2011](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/16ajune), John Watson's blog


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock hunches over Molly Hooper's kitchen table in the half-dark, all the curtains always closed while he's staying. He presses two index fingers into the ridge between his brows, staring wide-eyed but blank. He always looks sad, now, since there's nobody to watch him, not really. Just her, little old Molly. She counts, yes. Only a bit, though. And not in the way she wants to. 

His hair is a little longer than usual, much less clean than usual, and a horrible mess of knots. Connie Prince would probably have something to say. If she weren't dead, that is... which she is.

Molly stands in the half-light of the division between the living room and kitchen, and says, “Do you want me to brush your hair?” 

She waits, a very long time, not sure Sherlock has even heard her, until he blinks and turns slowly, like he's floating carefully underwater. He looks at her like he's surprised, not by her question, but by her being there at all. Molly's used to that, though. 

What she's not used to is when he says, “All right.” 

Hands quivering a little, she gets a cup from the kitchen cupboard and fills it with lukewarm water, and digs a hairbrush out of her makeup kit, quickly, before he changes his mind. But he hasn't moved when she gets back, except to sit. Molly pours the water, just a trickle of it, into her cupped palm, and presses it to the top of his head, spilling it over his curls, which she slowly works to detangle. 

This is, really, all she's wanted from day one. To run her hands through his hair. But this isn't quite right, either. No usual, harsh Sherlock, all confidence and articulation as she squirms. This isn't exactly what Molly's imagined. 

But then again, what is? 

“My mum used to do this for me all the time,” she says. “Not that my hair's curly, but actually because it's so fine it still gets tangled up a lot. And—not that I'm your mum. Only that it reminded me of my mum. Or—sorry, I'll shut up now.” 

Sherlock says nothing, so she keeps working in silence, until Sherlock's face presses into his flexed hands. 

Molly says, “If you need to talk about something—” but the flat still stays silent, just brush and scalp and tugging of tangles. 

Eventually, he mutters, “John, I—” 

She pulls the brush away, fingers weaving out of one last taut curl. She goes and dumps the water down the drain.

“Leaving,” Sherlock says to her, standing. 

“You don't have to,” Molly says, quickly, forcing a smile to her lips, rocking on her feet from heel to ball. But he's already turned away.

“Has to be Iran,” he mutters to himself, scrabbling in his pockets for his phone. “Khuzestan? No, no, stupid, of course not. Kohgiluyeh. The university. Obviously.” 

He's already gone.

 

No, Molly doesn't expect gratitude; that part's okay. It's not right to do nice things for other people just to get their thanks. He did thank her, too, even if it was just once. Right after forging the autopsy report, when Sherlock was shivering in his own dumped-on blood in the cold of her basement office, his cheeks and nose wet, and she signed the bottom of the form in blue ink because she couldn't find a black pen anywhere, her signature a little different than usual because her hand was shaking and she could lose her licence. 

She asked him, “Um. Would you like a tissue?” 

“It was necessary that I cry to make the act believable for the snipers,” he said. 

She pursed her lips and quieted and he quieted and they both pretended that was the full truth. 

He was suddenly like a little boy, not at all like the arrogant, half-dangerous genius she used to know. 

He said, “Thank you, Molly Hooper.” 

He hasn't said her name since.

She wanted him to keep her involved. She wanted to prove she has it in her, more than just forging some documents. Maybe they could even get closer, that way. But instead Sherlock was off, leaving her alone and avoiding John Watson and any unrecognised mobile numbers. 

John hasn't tried calling, so she can probably stop worrying now. But she doesn't think she can face him again, not after the funeral, where his eyes glazed over to her beet red cheeks, then away. Molly wonders if he thought she was still embarrassed about being in love with Sherlock. She peeled the top layer of skin on the insides of her cheeks with her molars, chewed and chewed, trying to keep quiet. 

She used to have trouble even remembering John's name, but not anymore. How could she, now? She answers to it, now, even once in the shops when someone was calling for a child. John, John, John. Molly found herself turning, ready to ask “What do you need?” when she saw a tiny boy, a bouquet of squeezable yoghurt tubes compressed between his fingers, bounding back to his mother for a scolding. 

She turned away, and wondered when even her own name had been taken from her. She shouldn't have let it happen. Except she wanted to help. And she doesn't go back on those kinds of promises. 

It's not the gratitude. It's the part where he said he needed her that really upsets her. He needed something she could do. Not her, not really. Sherlock meant well. But that doesn't make Molly feel much better.

 

She thumbs fluff from Toby's coat off the bristled brush, rolling the cat hair into small, scratchy balls of fur, before letting go. They float down into the waste bin at her bare feet.

Toby pushes at the brush with his head and then gives a quivering little stretch before finally leaping out of the sink, with a thump onto the floor. A piece of fluff sticks to one leg of her pyjama bottoms, the ones with cartoon kitties on them, smiling and holding brightly coloured daisies in their paws. Molly pinches the hair off and bins it, before brushing her teeth. Just as she's spitting mint into toilet paper, there's a knock at the front door. Toby meows in his interested voice. 

Yes, she knows his different voices now. Sometimes she's very observant without much to be observant about. 

Toby's tail is held high with a curly-cue at the end, and he's peering out the window, the blinds she just closed bent open by his nose. She doesn't know who it could be. It was a long shift at work, and she really just wants to sleep.

Molly opens the door anyway, with a ponytail bobbing nod, and a cheerful “Hello,” before she really sees who it is. 

This doesn't happen to her. Molly's a doctor, she thinks about relationships, she has a steady job, she has a flat, she has a cat. She watches telly with her cat.

Jim Moriarty is on her doorstep in a black suit. 

She tries to swing the door shut again, mouth dropped open, but stops, because he's staring at her and panting like he's... scared?

“Molly, I'm so glad you're home. You have to help me. They're going to kill me.”

“Jim,” Molly squeaks. Then she points at him, brow furrowing, volume rising. “You were dead.” She's blinking hard, and trying to keep breathing properly.

“You _have_ to help me, Molly. Please, _please_.” Jim starts pacing. Molly clutches the doorframe.

“W-why would I help you,” she says. She hunches her shoulders. Molly meant to make it a question, but it sounds more like she's asking him to give her a very good reason.

Jim waves his hands in front of himself in a white flag gesture. “Listen, listen, you can take your time. That's fine. Just—” He looks around, paranoid. “They'll kill me, if they find me.”

“Who?” Why is she letting him... she shouldn't care. Not one scrap. But it's Jim, even if he's, well, _Jim Moriarty_ , and—

“Holmes, of course, Holmes!” He runs a hand into his hair, giving it total chaos. Molly sneaks onto the porch tentatively, stone cold under her bare feet, and closes the front door behind her. She doesn't want Toby getting out. The man in front of her seems just like the Jim she used to know. “Holmes and Dr. Watson,” Jim says.

“Um. Mycroft, then?” She rubs her hands against the sides of her thighs, itches the soft fabric with her nails.

“Sherlock! He's back in London!” With each step, Jim's pacing rattles the one loose patio trellis.

Molly shakes her head. “Sherlock is... dead.”

“Oh, no, no, no, we both know that's not _true_.” He skids to a halt, throws both hands up into the air, then drops them back down onto his head, elbows sticking into the sky, staring at her, breathing hard.

She stares back at him. What is she supposed to say? She won't give it away, but if Moriarty already knows, fighting him on it might just make things much worse. He hasn't tried to come in, though, hasn't tried to grab her. Yet.

“Do _I_. Deserve to die? Molly?” Jim asks.

She starts. “Um—” Molly shakes her head, she doesn't know what he's saying. “I don't know what you—”

“Do you think I'm a psychopath, then? Hopeless, no emotions?”

“No,” Molly says. “I-I don't think those exist, I mean, people are always just people.” Quickly, she adds, “But that doesn't mean—”

“They'll kill me, you know.” Jim nods frantically. “They'll find me and kill me. No bother with police this time, no, no, no.”

She purses her lips, and lets a frustrated breath out. “How am I—how am I supposed to help you?” Oh my god, what is she asking, what is she saying? To this frazzled ghost on the doorstep, in a suit probably more expensive than her six month salary? 

“I need a place to stay,” he says promptly. “Just a few nights, need to get my bearings. I trust you, Molly. Know you're kind.”

Her anger is rising. “I'm not... _naive_ , Jim,” Molly hisses. “You're lying. You're just lying to me... _again_. I know what you've done.”

“Do you?” he asks. “Do you really? What have I done?”

“You've killed people!” Molly wonders why she's not talking louder. She could probably scream, get someone from the neighbourhood to call 999. Instead, she's hushed.

“Yes!” Jim says so promptly she's surprised. Then: “One. _Carl. Powers_.” His drawl rolls over the name, and she remembers Sherlock and shoes.

She shakes her head. “What?” She shakes her head again, ponytail tugging when she does. She makes another frustrated noise. “You've done more than—” 

“Haven't! No, I haven't,” Jim says. “Consultant, remember? Don't do a thing myself.” He pauses. “Never did get the chance to explain that to you. You see, people come to me with their problems, and I make them go away. The problems, not the people, see. Unless they really, really want to go away. All this messiness in the world, Molly, and I take care of it, nice and tidy, easy peasy. Less collateral damage. Doing the world a service. Just a nice, working machine, full of nice, working—”

“Crimes,” she says. 

“Well, _yes_. If you _have_ to put it like that. But they'd happen with or without me, you know. Is it so wrong to help contain it? Make it _neater_?”

Molly doesn't have an answer for that. “But you did kill—”

“Yes, him, Carl, I did. I did, I really did.” Jim's voice goes high, sing-song, and thoughtful. “I’ll admit it to you, sweetheart, I won’t lie to you, I have killed one. He was going to kill _me_ , you know.” Molly thinks about interrupting, but keeps listening, because that's what she's really good at, for better or worse. She's always the one listening. “My voice is so sweet, you know, has always been so _unassuming_. It was back then, too, soft-spoken little baby face Jim, around the boys of the neighbourhood. And you know how boys are. Always called me horrid names, did horrid things, the usual, really too bad, too, too bad. And Carl, _he_ was the _worst_. He’d hurt me, hurt me terribly, and he was really so much larger than I was. One day, he told me he’d had enough, he’d find me and strangle me with his bare hands after his swimming match.” He sounds cheerful, but his eyes are dark. “I was desperate, dear, I knew he would do it. Swimmer's muscles, you see. All in the shoulders.”

“I know,” Molly finds herself saying. “We've had them in the morgue.”

“Yes,” Jim says, and looks at her in a way she can't interpret, before continuing, “So I poisoned him.” Jim shrugs. “The only one, Molly, the only death. Surely you can see self-defence was my only choice?” 

Molly stares at him. She doesn't think he's lying, not really. What he's said makes perfect sense from what she read about the case. Everyone mourned Carl, all the papers, but star athletes were... awful usually. Bullies. Jim's taller than her by a bit, but he's really very small. Sherlock surely hasn't been the first to call him gay, either, and that could have made things much worse for Jim. 

Jim continues, “You have nothing to be afraid of, not from me.”

Molly takes a breath. “I don't think that's—” she begins.

“Have I ever hurt you? Your feelings, yes, but your body?”

“No,” she says, taking another breath to continue. 

“And have I ever said the horrible things that Sherlock says to you?”

“No, but he—” 

“Do you want me to stay alive?”

“They—John wouldn't kill you,” Molly says, “And Sherlock, he's dead, but if he was alive, he wouldn't, either. They'd...” She trails off because she knows it isn't true, of course, and Jim knows it, too, from the way he clucks his tongue at her.

“They will,” Jim says. They both pause again, then he continues softly. “Can I come in for just a few minutes, please? Won't be long. Help me, Molly? I need you.”

“Why me?” Molly asks, bolder suddenly, angrier, thinking about Sherlock's need that wasn't much of a need after all.

Jim gives her a shy little grin that makes her think of the smell of Bart's coffee machine, and Jim from IT's mispress of the cherry hot chocolate button, instead of espresso, and how she liked it all the same, even if she was drooping into sleepiness and sugar crash late into her shift.

“I've always liked you,” Jim says. “I'm not perfect, far from it. But I don't want to die, Molly,” he says, wide-eyes suddenly watery.

It's enough. They both know it.

“Okay,” Molly says, very softly. She goes back into her apartment, but leaves the door cracked for him.

Jim closes the door behind himself, clicks it locked, and looks at her. His head makes a sliding, oscillating journey as he smoothes back his frazzled hair, his gaze suddenly empty—not the depth she sometimes can't interpret in Sherlock, but shallow, blank, a wading pool she could break all her bones trying to dive into. Molly knows, right away, she's made a mistake.

“That was fun,” he says, and her stomach sinks.

“You were dead, before,” Molly repeats from much earlier, quietly, because she doesn't want to talk about why it was fun. She's dreading what he means by that, because she thinks she knows exactly. She thinks she's been an idiot all over again.

“Did you do the autopsy? Because I'm sure ya didn't. I _could_ look it up for you, tell you exactly who!”

“Oh,” Molly says, very quietly. “But you shot yourself in the head.”

“Guns don't always have real bullets, you know,” he says, giving her an amused smile that makes her think of Jim from IT tapping her nose with a fingertip and calling it “absolutely adorable,” but much more horrible. Like he wants to cut off her nose instead.

She shakes her head. “We'd had an actor come in once, bone fragments in the brain and massive haemorrhaging from a blank,” Molly says. “He was dead.” She purses her lips. “Well, obviously. Sorry. But—”

“I _dooooo_ do my research, you know. Low budget noir, point blank, .44 Magnum, temple, I know _all_ about him. Oh, honey, if you open your mouth wide enough,” Jim demonstrates, and she sees that he still has his tonsils, “No need to bother the skull at all.” He furrows his brow, tonguing one of his back teeth. “Nasty sore throat and chipped a tooth, though.”

“Oh,” she says. Molly doesn't know what else to say, how else to argue. He is alive, after all. Alive and standing in her living room. 

A shape moves across the floor to greet Jim. He grips Toby by the scruff, tossing him away.

“Don't kill him!” she says frantically.

Moriarty gives her a nasty smile, then looks at his hands, makes a face, and wipes them on the sides of his suit.

“Your cat? What good would that do?” Toby's unharmed, purring and kneading the carpeted floor, and Molly wishes she could tell him, no, no, don't be happy to see him, this isn't Jim, this isn't the same Jim. He's different now, Toby, stop that. 

“Surely,” Jim continues, “You know I didn't come all this way, for a _cat_.” He looks thoughtful. “If I wanted to kill a cat, could've got one of those anywhere, couldn't I? Yes, yes, I could. Discount at the pet shop on pairs, too, saw it in the shopping centre, hmm, could work, yes—IF I ACTUALLY WANTED TO KILL A CAT.” 

His gaze is wet with a doe-eyed rage she's never seen before.

“W-what are you going to do to me?” Molly asks, staring at him, trying to think of something, anything, to do. She's been an idiot. He could have broken in anyway, it was just more... fun for him, this way. Still, an idiot. Maybe Sherlock will know. Will have expected this. Will burst in a little late but to the rescue, like John's blog has talked about. He used to do that all the time for John. For John, her mind repeats, and acid washes up and down her oesophagus, rising and falling with her breath, and Jim smiles and blinks at her happily now, perfectly calm. 

“Sherlock's forgotten all about you, so really, I'd say, this is all. His. _Fault_.” Jim shrugs, gleeful.

Molly wishes she could protest that Sherlock hasn't forgotten, but she can't tell Jim anything about Sherlock, just in case. And she thinks it'd be lying anyway. It's been a year. Sherlock's just very busy. Now would be the time, though, for Sherlock to burst in, Molly thinks. Prove them both wrong.

Nothing.

The street's quiet traffic noises, and the rustling of the neighbour's overgrown, dying planter boxes in the wind.

“Someone will come for me,” she says.

“Hmm, we'll have to see about that,” Jim says.

Glancing carefully at her feet instead of the front door, bracing herself, Molly makes a bolt for it, getting as far as the cold door handle against her palm, when he grabs her.

“Oh, nice pyjamas, by the by,” Jim says, and shoves her face-first into her own wall. 

She hits her forehead against the plaster and blinks the sudden sting out of her eyes. One hand on her wrists, twisting painfully, Jim's hand against the back of her head tugs enough to pull out one, just one, very long, thin strand of hair. It looks red in the dim light. Red like when she holds a torch against her palm in a dark room, and she can see it glowing through pale skin. Only her mouth flinches. 

Molly sees Jim staring at the hair, head titled, before he flicks it away, and turns a grin on her. “Ready to tell me everything you know about Sherlock?”

Molly closes her eyes.


	3. Chapter 3

John Watson's therapist tells him it might actually be a blessing that Sherlock's passed—a tragedy, but a blessing, too.

John's activities with him only delayed coping with and healing from PTSD, after all. “He took you out of 'post,' John, right back into the trauma,” Ella says. “It makes sense that your symptoms have returned, and, honestly, I'm not convinced it's because being around Holmes cured you. It's not so simple. I think you know that. No more murders, now. No more battles.” 

John gives a brisk nod that doesn't mean he's agreeing with her, and more means he's trying not to choke. He hasn't taken anything, but he feels pumped full of antihistamines, hazy. When he doesn't look at her straight on, it's sort of like she's a television set he's forgotten to switch off, buzzing in the background of sleep. He tries not to feel surprised when she keeps talking to him, that she knows he's there, that she can see him. 

“You've been running high on adrenaline, and that's obviously what you needed to do, John. But at this point,” Ella says, “Now. Right now. We can start working through your grief, and your trauma. You can start the healing process again. No more running away, John. Would you say that sounds right?”

 _Sherlock demands_ , take my hand, _as they're off, running away. Through the orange-dark streets of London, and John's sweating buckets but Sherlock's hand is dry and warm, and something in John hits his chest cavity, hard—maybe surprise that the git's hands aren't deathly cold, maybe something else. What else? That's a strange thought. The feeling in John's chest lifts into his throat in a panic, and John says,_ Now people will definitely talk. _Sherlock's silent, no witty retort. They're still running frenetic, and Sherlock's fingers don't even twitch against John's._

“This loss is incredibly hard for you,” Ella says. “Let's think of it as a chance to grow.” 

“He wasn't—” John's words cut off because he hasn't taken enough of a breath before the sentence. A pulse of nausea rubs inside his chest. “A fake,” he finishes, voice too high. He tries to swallow, fails, and then swallows again. 

“I never said he was, John,” Ella says, writing something down that he can't read because she's started covering her notes with a cupped hand. 

John finally takes Mycroft's advice and sacks her, turning down referrals to someone else with a jerky shake of his head. 

_John wonders if Sherlock can figure out the exact level of his pulse through the handcuffs, like some kind of tin-can telephone, transmitting. John pinches Sherlock's coat sleeve, hard enough for the fabric to leave indents into his thumbprint. Back against the wall, he can hear Sherlock's uneven, open-mouthed breathing. He can hear his own breath._

John walks very slowly to the waste bin outside the office, and dry heaves over it, gagging with a low scraping, popping sound, burping rasps. Nothing comes up. John presses the heels of his palms against his eyes, hard enough to spark the floaters in his vision. His hands come away wet. He claps them against the sides of his trousers, clears his throat, chin up, and hails a cab.


	4. Chapter 4

Jim has a gun beside them. He calls this the important part. He can't get himself too dirty. 

“Special enough as you are,” he'd said, almost thoughtfully, “for me to be here at all, really, let's not push it with too much wrestling and screaming, hmm? This should do the trick instead.” And he flashed the gun.

Molly doesn't know what kind it is. She doesn't know that kind of thing, not without seeing a wound and looking things up. She'd rather not see a bullet wound today, but Jim knows she'll die before telling him anything. She'll do that for Sherlock, yes. Because she's knows it's important, and she knows she's been an idiot. 

Instead of killing her, Jim has a line of her own household objects—kitchen knife, scissors, Toby's curved nail clippers, a ballpoint pen, some rubber bands, a piece of cardboard, a broken glass canning jar—along the side of the bathtub. Molly's in the tub, still in her pyjamas. He hasn't taken her out of them, not at all, and he hasn't touched her, not like that, so she can survive through this for now. Things that have blood on them, he places to the left. Things that are clean, to the right. She notices this. By now, there's more to the left than the right. Jim kicks her for good measure, too, until she's doubled over, though he wipes his shoe off on her bathroom rug right after, muttering that someone will come to do the cleanup.

The clippers are at her wrist again, and Jim asks questions about Sherlock again, this time yelling because Molly's made him really very angry. She sees a strip of grout mould under one of the shower tiles. She's never reclined quite like this before, which is why she probably missed it cleaning. She's glad she knows now, glad she's looking at it from this angle. Might as well stay positive. This way, she can clean it properly next time. Little Miss Perfect, her friends call her, though she doesn't see them much anymore. 

Molly giggles and suddenly can't stop giggling and her throat gives a contraction for a split second as she chokes on saliva and she coughs twice and spits gently into her palm and sees it's bloody, and wipes her hand off on the same tile, mould and blood, now, and giggles harder. 

“What?” Jim asks, and he seems furious that he doesn't know the joke. Molly's felt that way before, too. She hates when people are laughing near her and she doesn't know why, because she thinks, then, it might be about her. She laughs harder. He grabs her chin and slaps her, hard, across the face. “What?” Moriarty demands again. 

She shakes her head, blinking the impulse tears that spring to her eyes. She hasn't cried over other wounds, even the ones in between her toes, but anything close to her eyes, Molly can't help it. “I'm thinking about cleaning.”

Moriarty sits back on his heels, and says, “Oh.” Then he gives her a disgusted little smile, all teeth, like he hates her. His face is all new to her, morphing, as much as she liked looking at it, when he was Jim from IT. “You're very boring, aren't you?” Jim says.

“Yes, probably to you,” Molly says, trying to sound cheerful. She really doesn't even know where Sherlock is, not now, that's the thing. She knows where he went at first, but he's probably not there anymore. But Molly won't say anything, just in case. 

She's trembling all over, now, little jerking movements that she can't stop, teeth chattering. She feels sweaty and really in need of a shower. At least she's already in the tub. Molly presses her lips together into a small smile. Her trembling turns into full muscle jerking. She tries not to look at the amount of blood collecting in the tub where her soggy pyjama leg clogs the drain. It looks more than it is, blood always does. She's awake, so she's fine.

Jim's head swivels side to side, inspecting her. “You really don't know anything, do you?” It's no longer a question.

“No,” Molly says. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Now?” He sounds disgusted. “Why would I do that?”

She lifts her chin, though. “I might tell someone about you.”

“No, no, you won't, you're boring. Won't say a peep, not a little whisper. Good. Really. Wise choice, Molly.” Jim hops up from his squatting position, pockets the gun, and twirls around once, before washing his hands in water she sees steaming from the tap in her bathroom sink, scrubbing wet slaps of soap into his hands, over and over again, until they're red and not because of stains. He dries his hands on a towel, and throws it at her. “Pity we couldn't have more fun, Molly dear,” he says. 

Before he can leave, just like everyone, like Sherlock, she says, “Wait.”

“Kittens don't talk, Molly,” Jim says, fiddling with his phone with thumbs. Sherlock always made her feel like a mouse, small, squeaky, meaningless. At least she's moved up in the world now. 

“Jim—”

“Meow meow.”

“Jim, please, I'm seri—” 

“YOU WANT ME TO STAB THE SHOWER ROD THROUGH YOUR EYE?” he shouts, still facing away from her.

Molly takes a deep breath. “Where are you staying?” 

“WHAT?” Jim spins around.

She closes her eyes. _Carl Powers_ , Molly thinks, and her eyes fly open again—she's made her decision. “Do you have a safe place to stay? You're right. They will kill you if they find you, you know. I've heard them talk about you. They hate you.”

“You don't?!”

“I—I would really like you to stay, if you need to. I can get you dinner and a clean sheet for the couch.” 

Jim gapes at her. “You _want_ me to stay safe? Now? After this?”

“You don't deserve to die.” Molly still believes that. He's not a nice man. But she believes it.

“You're not, are you?” Jim says, slowly.

Now she doesn't know what he's saying. “Not, um, what?”

“Boring.” Moriarty stares at her, hard, and she realises he hasn't really looked at her. Ever. Not like this. Not until now. Now his sight is really meeting hers. “Weak.” His eyes are dark, glossy. “Ordinary.” Jim frowns. “You're a horrible mess, Molly, can't take you anywhere like _that_. Clean yourself up.”

“Um, take me?” Molly asks. That wasn't what she—that wasn't what she meant—

He flips open the medicine cabinet, and grabs the bottle of hydrogen peroxide that Molly's had there ever since she tried to make Toby throw up after swallowing a string. The string passed on its own. Toby never threw up. Apparently it only works on dogs, actually. Molly wonders for a moment if she should tell this to Jim, just in case it's useful. Then she wonders just how much blood she's lost. “Take me where?” 

“Clean yourself up,” Jim repeats, and tosses her the container. Molly tries to catch it, but it hits her in the stomach instead. She barely has the energy to react. She hears the slight, mostly-full swishing inside the bottle.

“I'd rather not go anywhere,” Molly says, but he's not listening. She's shaking so hard now she can barely uncap the peroxide lid. 

Jim just taps frantically on his touch-screen, muttering, “Molly, Molly, special, spiffy, not quite so boring after all, no, no, no. This could be lovely, Molly.” His accent shifts, changes. “Just _rad_.” She sloshes out the peroxide onto her arm, where it lands with an audible hiss against the blood and wounds. It turns the loose skin white, sloughs the dead cells, stings the insides.

“ _Lovely_ ,” Jim says again. Molly pours the bottle over her toes. 

It's not that she doesn't see Jim and the needle approaching, it's that he still has his gun, so there's not much she can do. The needle goes through her pyjama shirt and into her arm without so much as a struggle. 

And then Molly's glad the bathtub's not filled with water, because from her darkened peripherals, she's pretty sure she's going to fall asleep right—now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-1-320664154)  
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> [Johnlock Big Bang 1](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-1-320664154) by [kironomi](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/)  
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> 


	5. Chapter 5

John resumes what he mentally refers to as his morning gun check. But that's all there is to it. Just a check. He just has to take a look. Not that it's going anywhere. Nothing happens, not anymore, not even theft. John's not going anywhere, either. He just likes to look. 

It's a sort of routine, and John likes routine. Well, no, he doesn't. Just like he doesn't actually like a tidy, empty flat, nothing to clean, nothing to trip over. He hates it. But he also hates thinking about that. 

John's not stupid enough to do anything that'd make him hate himself even more, if by some horrible bloody chance he lived to tell the tale, or there was some kind of afterlife. He's nothing like the arrogant prick who was so egotistic he couldn't handle people calling him a fraud. But no, no. That's just John being angry again, which he always feels worthless for afterwards. It's not fair to Sherlock—well. Sherlock's memory. 

John can't remember Sherlock's face very clearly anymore. His real face, not the false smiles in the some of the papers. John's studied those, and they don't make sense, those faces. But he can't remember Sherlock's real expressions, because his face was always changing, morphing; it was like he was completely different people all the time. There are only a few pieces John remembers, lines on Sherlock's neck where his skin bent when his head was tilted, the dramatic downward point of the middle of Sherlock's top lip, the ridiculous side-fanning of his hair, the stray prickling strands standing out from dark curls. But John just wants to see his real bloody face again.

John sits in front of the telly, holding the remote control, but the screen is blank, dark. Sometimes he does this. Considers turning it on, but doesn't. On the one hand, the blabber can be comforting. On the other hand, every time he turns it on lately, whatever volume used to work to bring John back into awareness of his surroundings keeps needing to be higher and higher, until he's got the TV blasting full volume, and instead of feeling uncomfortable and there, really there, he can barely hear it, he's off floating. Maybe it's the insomnia talking, too. 

John sits in silence, instead, but silence is much more dangerous. Silence makes him think about things. Maybe he should have invited that last girl back from the pub after all, instead of turning his head away, and saying he was tired, and booking a taxi back to his studio flat. 

He wouldn't mind the company now. What was her name? Christ, he was getting bad at this. Getting almost as bad as— _no_. Nope. Anyway, she smiled at him so wide John could see the tiny chip of peanut skin that was stuck in the gum of her front tooth, and she pushed her palm down onto his soft cock through his jeans, and he gave her a half-mouth smile out of habit, and when she leaned in a little closer, the toothpaste stain on her low-dipping collar smelled like blueberry bubblegum, a kid's flavour, so probably a toddler? Maybe? John should be fine with that. Honestly, he should probably look for that, he still hasn't got kids and he's over 40 now, he isn't married. John thought right away, in a voice not his voice, and he could still hear that voice, that hadn't disappeared with the face, _You know my methods_ , and—no. No, no, no. 

Anyway, her name must have been Penelope. Patricia. Phoebe. Pauline? Fuck, god fucking—John throws the remote at the television screen, hard, and it hits because he has great aim after all, crack shot, not much use it's been lately, but the screen doesn't even have the decency to break. John's still made no impact on his environment, there's still no physical proof that he's real, and he doesn't feel real lately, not since—

“Careful. I'd prefer you had a working television—where I've been, difficult to get decent channels,” a baritone voice says from behind him. John's on his feet quicker than he remembers he could, hand slapping down on his pocket, reaching for the gun that's still in his drawer, so he lets his hand fall empty. John's dry mouth falls open with a faint click at the sight in front of him.

“Hello John,” Sherlock says. 

And there's Sherlock's face. But with firmer creases around his mouth, everything else unageing, soft lips twitched into a slight smile, eyes tilted and pale and just as fixated as ever. He's skinny again, really, really skinny. Scarf tied like a noose and snug around his neck. Coat collar up. It's a joke. It's like John's last year was completely useless, everything he's felt. John's been completely useless. Sherlock didn't tell him. _Sherlock didn't tell him_. A scenario John's fantasised about so many times until it's become completely meaningless. A scenario he's tried to work through, tried to get rid of it, because it's stupid, because it's pathetic, because Sherlock's _dead_.

“No,” John says.

Sherlock frowns, and shit, his voice is just the same, isn't it, filled with irritation when someone tells him he's wrong. “What—what do you mean, _'no'_?”

John raises his hand, shaking his head jerkily. “No. No, you do _not_ get to do this.”

“John,” Sherlock says, this time he's pleading, and he takes a step forward, until John cups a hand around his own mouth, and throws his hand out further to stop Sherlock. Sherlock halts obediently, rocking in place. 

John takes his hand away from his mouth, heaving in a breath through his nausea. “No, shut up, Sherlock, _shut up_!” He's yelling now. “You—you were _dead_.”

“John.”

“I TOOK YOUR BLOODY PULSE.”

“That was—”

“I BURIED YOU. DO YOU HAVE ANY FUCKING IDEA—”

“John, calm down, you're going to faint,” Sherlock says, matter-of-factly.

“Oh! Oh, I'm going to faint now? Tell me, wise one, with your massive powers of deduction, why you think I'd faint? I AM NOT GOING TO FAINT! WHY WOULD I FAINT!” John had never bloody fainted in his entire life, hadn't fainted while getting shot, definitely wasn't about to start now. “You—you—” 

Sherlock squints his eyes a little at John. “On second thought, don't calm down, you'll lose your muscle tension and initiate a vasovagal response. Continue.”

John, pressing his short-trimmed fingernails into his palm with tightly clenched fists, takes in a breath and lets it out, ready to tell off Sherlock, _really_ tell him off, tell him how absolutely bloody unacceptable and dickish and unforgivable—John's limbs tingle, he considers throwing up, and he passes out.

 

John, with the nagging kind of headache that makes his teeth feel too tight, opens his eyes to Sherlock's scarf trailing a light pressure against his chest, brushing its fabric against John's worn-thin jumper. John shifts uncomfortably. Sherlock tosses the ends of his scarf over a shoulder, leaving nothing touching John except the sofa beneath him. Sherlock keeps kneeling on the floor, leaning over him with the most concerned look on his face that John's ever seen, except maybe when Sherlock was stripping him of the Semtex at the pool. John can tell he'll be nursing a spot on the back of his head for a while, where he must have smacked it on the coffee table.

“Who's the current prime minister?” Sherlock asks, then quickly shakes his head. “No, no, don't answer that, I don't know, I'll have to Google it, too time-consuming.”

“Christ,” John says, rubbing his face. “I am a doctor, in case you forgot. Uh...” He sighs. “My middle name's Hamish, we're in London, you're supposed to be dead, and I'm unforgivably ticked at you, dead man. No dizziness, no more nausea. A hell of a lot of rage, though.”

Sherlock looks a little relieved. “Well—” he begins, then clears his throat. “Good. No concussion.” He purses his lips. “John, I—”

“Sherlock—” John says warningly. 

“I owe you—a thousand apologies.”

John doesn't need Sherlock's sense of the dramatic right now. “Don't.”

So Sherlock doesn't. Though he does add tentatively, “You can hit me, if you'd like. It might help.”

“I'll keep that in mind, yeah,” John says wryly. Now would be the time, but he can't bring himself to hurt Sherlock. Not after—Christ, Sherlock's here.

Sherlock seems to be waiting patiently for John to hit him, then sees that he won't, and instead rocks backwards on his knees, ready to stand up, but John reaches out, and grips Sherlock's forearm, hard, through that ridiculous coat. John looks away, off to the space on the wall where the fuse box is, silent, but he sees Sherlock, in his peripheral, frozen in his movements, practically frozen in his breath, just staring at where John's holding on to him. John can feel thick fabric, bone, the buzzing of muscle tension, maybe even slight heat, though the coat's a good insulator.

It's not that John was expecting to feel nothing. It's just that he needs to feel something.

“There's been a murder...” Sherlock begins tentatively, and John pulls away his hand, finally, and sits up, but doesn't stop Sherlock or yell again, because John's suddenly exhausted, just really, really tired. 

Sherlock continues much more quickly, “Member of the homeless network, here in London. Of course, homeless individuals are targeted as easy victims for those so inclined, fairly common you might say. Yes, you'd be right, violence certainly, though as premeditated murder victims they actually account for only 1%. Regardless, this particular victim had a special significance in my plans with Moriarty, was on street duty with me, you encountered him though you wouldn't remember, one of many planted at the scene, even helped transport my body, so I have many reasons to suspect—” 

“So everyone knew,” John says. Sherlock told total strangers who slept under park benches that he was going to fake his death, but couldn't tell John. 

“No. Everyone? Hardly. Hyperbolic,” Sherlock says. “Just a few. And never any details, except for Molly and Mycroft, and even then, only just.” To think they both actually bloody looked John in the face afterwards. “John, you have to understand, it was necessary. What happened, on the roof, it was—”

“Nope, don't want to hear it,” he says. “Tell me about the body.”

Sherlock's face is pained, so John stops looking at it. 

Sherlock continues, more slowly, “Haven't seen it yet, I've only just been notified. The police don't know yet. I wanted to—stop by first, before I conducted the investigation. Since I'm—back in the area. The best antidote for grief is action, I've been told, so perhaps you—”

John stands, rubbing the back of his head at the surge of ache the blood pressure change gives him. “You're serious? You're actually going to come back, after all this, and ask me to go check out a body with you? Like nothing's happened?”

“Could be dangerous,” Sherlock says.

John pretends the thought doesn't give him a surge of adrenaline. He doesn't know why he's bothering to pretend, because this is Sherlock, but to give himself some credit, he hasn't been with Sherlock in a very long time. “That line doesn't work every time,” he says, trying to muster up his residual anger.

“No, of course not.” Sherlock pauses briefly, then quickly adds, “But it does this time.”

“Yes,” John says sharply. “Yes, fine. Don't push your luck.”

He glances back in time to see a small smile flicker across Sherlock's mouth, then sober and disappear. “Shall we? Still have that gun?”

It was there this morning. It'll be there now.


	6. Chapter 6

When Molly wakes up, all she notices in the darkness is that her ear itches, so much that a shiver runs down the left side of her neck, and she shudders, scratching at it with her nails until she accidentally pries out an earpiece. She lets out a little noise of surprise before scrabbling for it on the unlit ground, smooth flooring that squeaks when her skin frictions against it. She puts the earpiece back in. 

“Good golly, Miss Molly,” Moriarty's voice in her ear sings, and she remembers, just as the overhead fluorescent lights switch on, so bright she cringes and squeezes her eyes shut, before squinting them open again. 

She has a persistent sore ache all over her body, but also finds she's covered in bandages where necessary, though she's still in her bloodstained pyjamas, dried stiff and brown. She doesn't hurt nearly as much as she should; Jim must have pushed pain meds, too. Molly's hair is long and loose—at some point the rubber band holding it snapped. It's caught in the fine long strands. 

Molly stands up, hunching her shoulders. She's in some kind of indoor tennis court, without any netting or poles, just flooring and walls. _They're_ in some kind of court. Because an elderly man is here with her, too, his eyes bloodshot but wide. He's scared, definitely scared, she can tell. She wonders if she looks that scared, too. He has a long, pinched nose and sagging cheeks drooping past his chin, thin straight grey hair. He leans heavily against one wall, wearing plain blue hospital scrubs, tops and bottoms. He looks familiar.

They're both barefoot, on this synthetic gym flooring that reminds her of secondary school and sitting cross-legged waiting for sports to start, having missed a spot shaving on her knee and holding the spot with her thumb to hide it and blushing hot until her ears hurt, and putting her head down to shield her face with her draping, straight hair. 

“Who are you?” Molly asks to the man and he shakes his head silently, and Moriarty, with a slight electric buzz from the device, says in her ear, “Why don't you try the door, darling?”

“Jim, this isn't funny,” Molly says out loud, and she notices the earpiece in the man's ear, too. "Um, can you hear this, too?" she asks, pointing to her ear, and he nods frantically. “I know you,” she whispers, and he nods again, but he won't say another word and she doesn't know why she knows him, but she knows him. 

The one heavy metal door with a push bar of course doesn't open, no matter how much she presses her palms or back against it. “Is there a reason you want me to try the door?” Molly says. The man in the room is still quiet. 

“Oh, none at all, just fun,” Jim replies, so she knows he can hear her. “Ready for even more fun?”

“No,” she says, glancing around at the bare ceiling, the bare floor.

“No spoilsports allowed now! Meet Stanley Alden. Stanley, Molly Hooper. But youuuu know that already, don't you?” Stanley shakes his head hard, now, still quiet, and looks almost scared of Molly. Why of her? It doesn't make any sense. 

“Hi Stanley,” she says, softly.

“Oh, everyone's saying hullo, hullo, hullo, how beau-ti-ful! Now that's done... you're going to kill him, Molly!”

Molly gapes. “No, I won't. D-don't threaten me, either, Jim. You can kill me first, I don't mind. I don't kill people.” She cuts them up, yes, and she even enjoys her job sometimes, but she's never had the inclination to actually... make her own patients. She's not like that. She doesn't know a single morgue attendant or pathologist who's like that. It's the horrible things the press always says about them. Things in silly crime novels, not real. She would never. “I would _never_ —”

“You see,” Jim says, and he sounds so excited that her stomach clenches. “You _would_. Because someone's injected our dear _Stan_ here with ricin.”

Molly feels the heat draining from her face down her neck. Her nose and toes feel cold. She sits down on the floor, promptly. Stanley looks confused and scared, still scared of her. She's never had anyone be afraid of her before.

“According to this neat little fact sheet I've got here,” Jim says, “Ricin causes death of cells. Hmm, that could be fun! I wonder which cells will die first? Necrosis is awfully painful, isn't it? Much, much worse than a little patch of frostbite. Stan my man, you know all about frostbite, don't you?” Stanley's started shaking and Molly's close enough that she sees a tiny capillary in his eye pop, a patch of white sclera turning pink.

“Over the next hour,” Jim says, “Our dear Stanley here is going to make quite the mess. Oh dear, that's not very good, not very pleasant at all. Would you just look at this list, how awful!” He makes a noise like a shudder. “Severe chest pain? Hallucinations? Maybe a good trip, though, what do you think Stanley? Relaxed enough to enjoy the visions? Vomiting blood. _Pissing_ blood. Seizures. Drowning? Drowning, I do love drowning, but how silly, there's not even a pool. _Oh_ , yes, drowning in his own fluids, filling his lungs, yep, that makes more sense, yes.” His voice suddenly loses all humour. “It'll all start very soon. Molly.” She's never heard Jim say her name like that before, like all the intensity of his attention is on her, even though she can't even see him. “Unless you take mercy, and kill him right away. Put him out of his misery. Though,” Jim adds, voice lighter, “You know, maybe you _could_ escape and get him an antidote. Wouldn't that be nice?”

Molly looks at Stanley, who's turned pale grey. “No,” she says quietly, trying not to cry. “No, there's no antidote to ricin.”

“Oh, you know, I think you're _right_. Whoopsie-daisie! Small print here. Oh well, must remember that for next time.”

Stanley utters the first words she's heard him speak yet. He's started to pant—she wonders if it's pulmonary oedema, or just panic. “Kill me.”

“With what?” Molly asks, voice high and tensed, her hands starting to shake, standing again. “What? Jim. Bring me a gun. Bring me something. You have—you have to—you—”

“A gun? Oh no, no, no, dear, it's time you did things all on your own. Show me what a big girl you can be.”

“Jim, no,” Molly says. “Please, don't make me do this.”

“P-p-please,” Stanley says to her, and he's started making harsh, moist, guttural sobs, in between wheezing breaths. “Please, now.”

Molly's hands are small, but she works with her hands. She thinks they might be strong enough. She approaches Stanley, who doesn't move from his slumped position against the wall. 

“I don't want to die like that,” Stanley whispers. Molly bites her lip and nods.

She says, “I'm sorry, really, really sorry.” Her arms almost won't reach out, but then they do. 

She grips Stanley around the neck, pushing her thumbs down, hard, trying to cut off his breath. His eyes start to go wide from lack of oxygen, and then—Molly thinks she must have missed the moment when the transition occurs, but it's happened and suddenly he's fighting her off, and then she's fighting for her life, and she wants to scream, _No, please, don't be stupid, if I die first you'll die horribly, it'll be horrible, please, no, just let me_ , but she can't make a sound because the man's hands are around her neck, both of them, even though just one of his hands is probably big enough to surround her entire neck, or so it feels. Molly tries to keep squatting in front of him but he's pushing against her with his full bulk so it feels like her spine will break if she doesn't let him topple her, so he does, and she can't breathe, and she can't pull his thick wrists away from her throat, and like pages of a book closing, there's black on either side of her vision, and she's getting giddy and thinks about just sleeping, just going to sleep, she's in her pyjamas already, she could just go to sleep, and her arms and hands feel weak, so weak, so exhausted.

But, instead, Molly reaches up, lifting her arms like she's lifting an entire body, heavy, so heavy, and she plunges her thumbnails into his eyes, and he makes a horrible gurgling yell and pulls away. She jumps up, gasping, coughing, and he's reaching for her again so she grips the strands of grey hair on either side of his head and throws her whole weight against him, until he collapses and she almost breaks all of her fingers but she doesn't. He hits his head, hard, against the floor, and he's still moving, bruising her arms, so Molly clenches his scalp tighter, digs her fingernails in until she feels his dandruff clumping under her nails, and slams his head down against the floor, again and again, dull thuds, but it's not working, he's still yelling, wheezing, he's in pain, she's put him in pain, and his skull is hard, too hard, so she hits it against the ground again, again. And then Molly thinks self-defence tactics and anatomy, because she knows anatomy, she knows that, she's good at that, so she takes the heel of her hand and hits it up against his nose so she can send the bones into his brain and kill him, finally kill him, but it's not hard enough and his nose doesn't even break, no cracking, sweat and not blood. 

Moriarty says, “This isn't going very well,” in her earpiece, and Molly lets out a horrible noise she never knew she could make, a wail ripped from her throat as she stands so quickly she almost falls. 

Before Stanley can rise again, she stomps hard on his throat, and his hands go around her ankle, and she cries out again, and stomps down on his nose, too, and now there's blood, now there's free-flowing blood and his hands loosen and drop, and she crouches down and presses her fingers into his neck but there's still a pulse, still a pulse, he's still alive. She stands up and stomps down on his throat again, foot slipping and sliding so his teeth cut her heel, and she checks his pulse again, and he still has one. 

“Fuck!” she says, “Fuck, fuck!” and Moriarty in her ear says “Ooh, Molly dear, I think that's the first time I've ever heard you swear,” and she shrieks “SHUT UP, SHUT UP!” and the earpiece goes obediently silent, no static, no white noise, completely disconnected, and suddenly she feels even more alone and she lets out a sob, and stands up again, and stomps on his neck another time, all her weight, and kicks hard against his forehead, against his eyes, blood spraying, and now she can't stop, she keeps going, over and over, until— 

Molly checks his pulse again. Nothing. She frantically checks the other side, then a wrist, then another wrist, fighting down the urge to perform CPR. Her arms are weak and trembling. No pulse.

That's all. She's done. Molly's killed someone now.

Collapsing down to sit in the cooling blood that makes her pyjamas cling to her inner thighs, Molly's not surprised when the door unlocks. 

“Where's Toby?” she asks softly, not looking up.

“You don't get to see him yet,” Jim says, then snarls, “You almost _died_.” 

Before she can stop herself, Molly snaps back, “That's not my fault.”

“You're too _weak_!” Moriarty shouts, standing right outside the pool of blood, on clean flooring. “And soft,” he adds, much more affectionately. “And kind. So, so kind. Not grieving, are you? Really, you ought to know this, of all people, sometimes it's a blessing to die,” he says.

“Yes,” she agrees. “But not like that.” People are filing in now, people wearing gloves who won't look at her, who are moving the body, taking it away, other people who are starting to clean the floor.

“Well,” Jim says. “We'll have to make it quicker next time, won't we?”

The person at the feet, carrying the feet of the body, Molly looks at that person. And she says, “Help, please,” softly, but the person doesn't look at her, the face doesn't move, it's like the ears don't hear her, the eyes don't see her. She's not here. Except Jim sees her. And Jim hears her, because he laughs at her words. Toeing carefully to avoid the puddles, he throws a blanket around her, and grips her around the upper arms, and pulls her to her feet. Her arm muscles are so sore and trembling that she can't push him away, but Molly finds her eyes are dry now even though she has residual snot choking her in her nose and throat. She snorts it in, in a little in-breath.

Jim pulls her away, out of the room, down a hallway, out a door, down a stairwell, to a basement car park. “He sold _you_ out,” Moriarty says, and Molly just shakes her head, doesn't know what he means. “Told me all about your fun with Sherlock. Keeping him alive, forging the _documents_. Another sad little person Sherlock's used, so sad, our poor _Stan_. Sherlock let him stay homeless, of course, hardly paid him, a bite to eat here, scrap of clothing there. Kept him scrounging on the streets.” Moriarty makes a face. “Do you know why?”

“No,” Molly says, and she's so, so tired.

“Go on, take a guess,” Jim says.

“I don't—”

One second she has his hand curled on her upper arm, supporting her, but the next second he's pushed her to the wall, screaming, “MAKE A GUESS.” Then he smiles sideways, and takes a breath to calm himself. “For me? Will you, pretty please?”

“Um,” she says faintly. Before she collapses to the floor, he's got her again, holding her up, waiting, staring at her with wide, empty eyes. “Um, because Sherlock likes... having homeless people. To work with. They're helpful. They m-maybe blend in. If they had homes, they wouldn't be as useful.”

“ _Gooooood!_ ” Jim says, like it's something to be proud of. “Whenever Sherlock needs them, he uses them, then abandons them, goes off and buys himself 400 pound shirts, trousers, they are good trousers, must say, quite nice-fitting, but _abandonment_ , oh, that's not very _good_ of him, not very righteous.” He clucks his tongue. “Just like he abandoned you, m'dear!” 

She takes a breath. “He didn't—” But they've arrived at a new, sleek black car, no rain spots, no rust, hardly a sign that it's even been driven. Jim opens the door for her. She crawls inside, and on her side of the back, absorbent hospital bed pads are tucked against the seat. Molly makes sure to stay seated and leaning on those, so she doesn't bloody up Jim's car. Jim's very nice car.

“Sherlock would have killed him, you know,” Jim says. “Soon as he found out what he told me. Stanley's a villain now, you see, made his own choice. With that information of his, _anything_ could have happened to you. Dear Stan could have got you killed. Good thing you got some justice instead. Helped end his horrid existence, too. Stopped his suffering, stopped his pain.” 

She's so tired. It's true, his existence was horrible. And everyone dies anyway. Molly just—wishes the ending didn't hurt him so much. She doesn't want it to be like that. Her muscles are still shaky, and the feeling travels up her neck in a sleepy buzz that reminds her of a purr. Her eyelids are lolling. So tired. She's killed someone.

“Look at that blood all over your hands.” Moriarty whispers. There is blood on her hands. Enough to scrape off and peel in patches with her fingernails, if she ever moves her fingers again. “They'll come after you next, Molly, now you've shown what you can do. Your potential. Your rage. They'll come and get you, and not to take you back, no, no, no. You're a villain now, too. Good thing you've me to keep you nice and safe.”

She sleeps.

 

In the new place, after Molly's showered, after she's found clothes that are exact, but newer, duplicates of her own closet, which makes her think, _well, at least Jim's not trying to change me,_ which makes her giggle, which makes her start weeping, after she's stopped crying and starts sitting on the edge of the sofa again and waiting, he comes into the room quietly, pops in a DVD.

Within fifteen minutes, Jim is singing along to _Glee_. Within thirty minutes, despite her sore throat and her better intentions, Molly is singing along, too. She's always loved this episode.

She knows it's Moriarty. She knows who he is. She knows what he does, and what he's made her do. But that doesn't matter, not even when she really stops to think about it, because by then it's too late, they've already had fun.


	7. Chapter 7

John tries and fails not to feel too giddy, standing with his arms crossed over a corpse that even he can tell is a little too clean for its own good, positioned just a little too neatly. He covers the rising bubble of hysterical laughter in his chest with a frown. He glances around to make sure no one's coming, but the alley's deserted. 

It's embarrassing, that's what it is. John even knew not to reach for his cane on the way out the door, because Sherlock was back, alive, taking him to a body. He thinks that if his own mind knows it, the symptoms should disappear, even without the mad detective, but the ache, the horrible ache in his leg that got worse with rain, and it rains a whole bloody lot in London—he could never will it away. Now, gone again. It makes John question just what kind of control over his own body he really has. Shameful.

Sherlock (alive) squats down, coat fanning out, and John shifts his stance, just a little bit. “Stanley,” Sherlock says, pinching some of the dead man's clothes in between latex-covered fingers.

“You know their names,” John says, and Sherlock (alive) looks up at him, surprised. 

“Of course I do.”

“Right, sorry.” Way to make Sherlock sound like a complete dick. It's just that... he really sometimes is. Sherlock barely remembers Molly's name half the time. John will have to see her soon, let her know he's not pissed about her lying. She never can say no to Sherlock; John won't hold a grudge. Mycroft won't be so lucky.

Sherlock shakes his head, hard, and John watches the wave patterns of hair splaying out and then settling back down. He tries not to think about the same hair matted with blood against the pavement, blood splashed across Sherlock's face. Sherlock inspects the crook of the corpse's arm, under the eyelids, sniffs in the mouth. “No fast-acting poisons in or on the body; cyanide, arsenic, ricin, botulinum. Substance-free. They also won't find any other DNA, no fingerprints, perfectly clean. The spray patterns and the clotting,” Sherlock says, “suggest the victim's own blood was wet vacuumed, then reverse vacuumed onto the scene. Clever but barely, pointless, not nearly clever enough, it's obvious I would notice.” 

Sherlock runs his thumbs under the corpse's soft, loose throat skin, and frowns at the patterns there. “No technique in the killing, although some basic comprehension of anatomy. The killer was too physically weak to successfully carry anything out in a smooth way, a much smaller person. The police will suggest a self-defence killing to sexual assault. They'll be wrong. A very frantic, messy death, yes, but this is contradicted by the cleaning, the placing, the intent. It makes no sense.”

Sherlock jumps up again to standing. “A message, obviously,” Sherlock says, and then he huffs, squirms, presses his bare wrists to the top of his head while hissing in a grimace—John has a feeling he would press his fingers there, instead, but they're bloody, now—then drops his arms back down, spinning around the corpse again. 

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing, nothing, fine,” Sherlock mutters, but doesn't look at John.

“Sherlock,” John says, “ _What_. You can't keep me in the dark, not if—” You expect me to forgive you for what you've done, he doesn't say, but with that eerie mind-reading ability of Sherlock's, he's sure Sherlock knows anyway. 

Sherlock's sniffing the bottom of the corpse's trousers. “His own clothing, but washed with scent-free soap, 1,4-Dioxane-free, just like the cleaner for the body, good quality, not one he himself would use, but that's obvious, obvious, it's clean, we know it's been cleaned, obvious, useless—”

He's deflecting. It's been a long time but John hasn't forgotten what he's like. “ _Sherlock_.”

“It was pointless!” Sherlock shouts, jumping up and spinning at John. His voice is higher than John remembers, more strained, face contorted. “Lying to you, on a long-term basis? Keeping away?” John starts to shake his head, he can't—not right now—but Sherlock continues, “You obviously don't care to know, but the faked death, that was necessary, always necessary. On the rooftop, I had no choice. But later? The wait? I couldn't have you revealing that I was alive—oh, don't, you know you're a horrible liar—I couldn't tell you, I decided, I wanted to, but I couldn't, not until I destroyed the rest of Moriarty's criminal networks. It wouldn't have been safe, it wouldn't have been effective, you might have died, it might have meant I failed. Perfectly valid reasoning. But this? This tells me it didn't matter. Pointless. I wasn't done, destroying him. It was complex. I needed more time, but now, someone knows I'm alive, despite my best efforts. They're targeting me. By extension, they'll target you. It's ruined. They found out regardless. I could have been—” 

Sherlock storms away, though only a few feet. He stops talking, inverts his rubber gloves, ties them off and sticks them in his coat pocket. Still, John gets it. Sherlock could have been with him, this whole time. Could have told him, right away, maybe that same evening. They could have done everything together. 

He wouldn't have had to believe Sherlock was dead.

John doesn't know what to say to any of this. So he only asks, “Could it be Moriarty? Still alive?” Everyone fakes their deaths nowadays, it seems.

“Not enough data,” Sherlock says, taking swab samples of the surrounding dirty ground. “We're leaving now.” He takes out his phone and dials 999, and in a high-pitched, sobbing voice says, “Found a body! Lower end of Crawford Street! Goodness, horrible, truly horrible,” then hangs up the phone, his face a calm mask again. “It was inevitable that one of the network would sell me out eventually. Anyone who accepts bribes readily doesn't have a highly developed sense of loyalty. I'd just hoped it could be once my work against Moriarty's web was complete. I obviously miscalculated the timeframe of my trust.” 

John follows Sherlock out of the alley briskly, before the police can get there. They're both silent, until John can't help but blurt, “Don't jump off any more bloody roofs,” and Sherlock looks curiously in his direction, looking almost apologetic, except that John's still not ready to accept apologies. Sherlock thankfully stays silent. 

It's not until they're in the cab, far enough away that sirens they drove from are soft and fading, that Sherlock says, “No.”

John's forgotten because it's been so long. “No, what?”

“No,” Sherlock repeats slowly. “I—won't leave again.”

John's shocked into a quick nod and solemn silence, until he says, lightly, “Good.”

Sherlock gives him a glance, before turning away and pressing his face against the window.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-2-320665845)
> 
> [Johnlock Big Bang 2](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-2-320665845) by [kironomi](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/)


	8. Chapter 8

Jim tells Molly to kill again, and she does. 

Not because she thinks anyone deserves to die, not because she thinks it's right. Mostly because she thinks he'll probably kill both of them anyway, and worse, if she doesn't, but also a little because this time he's letting her use a scalpel. She knows just what to do; this is something she's good at. And she's already figured out that Jim likes when she's good at things. 

Molly feels steadier, now, without bare feet and bare hands, this time with something she knows. She knows exactly how hard to press. She knows it'll work, even though this person's even larger and much younger, healthier, than the one in the gym. She knows it'll be quick.

Molly slices both carotid arteries deftly and the blood is hot and constant over her nitrile gloves, but none of it touches her, with a welding mask and a crime scene suit, just like she's always thought about wearing if a detective ever invited her to go along to a crime scene, asked her to use her expertise. 

“Aren't you just a prize?” Jim says. She's just put to sleep the only other person she's seen in days. 

Her annual leave was saved up at work, and Jim's seen to her taking it. She wonders what'll happen when she goes over it, if she goes over it, but she's sure Jim will see to that, too, if he decides to keep her that long. She doesn't know what he wants. But she does know he respects her strong stomach. He's told her so. “A pity,” he says, his mouth squirming upwards in a smirk, tongue darting out as he leans in towards her, “No one misses you.”

Molly's used to only spending time with the dead, though, really. No tragedy in that. The dead, and now, the presumed dead. The neck spray of the corpse reminds her of holes in a still-running hosepipe and toeing into the water on the pavement, twelve years old, until the bottom of her skirt got wet and she went inside and changed.

“Don't tell me you're _mourning_.” His voice holds the tremor of her aubergine parmesan dinner plate in his hand the first night. He threw it against the wall after she told him, softly, that she was lactose intolerant. The tremor before the crash, before the specially-prepared meals for her, with arrowroot false cheeses that slide along her tongue in a way she likes. 

Jim isn't all bad, not all the time.

Molly frowns harder. “He—probably wasn't very nice, if he was here with you.”

“Yes, quite _right_ ,” Jim says.

It's over, right away, the life. It's easy.

 

Jim comes in without knocking at any time, any time at all, so Molly's learned to expect him. She supposes he doesn't have to knock, it's his flat, and he's made note to tell her he owns the one across the street, too, so no use writing on the windows for help. That's not the kind of thing she'd do anyway. She's not nearly dramatic enough for that, plus—he's right, about her. She has killed people now.

She waits for him, like she usually does, except this time he gave her newspapers and asked her to underline anything interesting and just naughty enough, and by that he means criminal. She's taken to the task, when she hears, first, the key code unlocking the door, then, a muffled, “Yoo hoo,” that immediately sounds wrong.

Moriarty is a mess of blood pulp and twisted muscles as he kneels in the doorway. “Jim!” she says.

“Care to help out?” 

Molly gets closer to him than she has this entire time, pressed against Jim's side as he leans heavily on her on the way to the bathroom. He vomits pink froth into the toilet, and she knows what that could mean, and he knows what that could mean, but she doesn't suggest hospital and neither does he. Molly pushes his damp hair off his forehead, and takes bunches of toilet paper to sponge away gently at the blood to see where the real wounds are. 

For a split second, she imagines trampling Jim's neck, too, pushing him down while he's weak, ending this, but she's washed over with guilt for even thinking it, as he stares at her with wide, dark eyes that are bloodshot in each corner, waiting for her to help clean him up. Molly hasn't touched him this much since he was just Jim, and even then, not much. 

He thumbs his own blood across her lips. She tries not to move her mouth or lick her lips, so she won't get any in her mouth, but she doesn't want to wipe it off, because she thinks Jim might be angry. He's calm right now. 

Calm for Jim Moriarty is not a comfort for Molly Hooper.

“Good shade on you, don't you think? Connie Prince would agree, sure she would,” Jim says. Molly licks her lips before she remembers not to. It's not that bad; she's tasted blood before, just never someone else's. She shouldn't let him do this, she doesn't know what he has and her mouth's an open sore from how often she chews at it, but she swallows anyway.

Molly's used to taking people apart, piece by piece, cracking open chest cavities like Cadbury's eggs spilling gelatine (Dad would always get those for her for Easter). But she's still a doctor. And really, she's done babysitting, because people growing up expected her to be good at that kind of thing, even though she had to learn and much preferred gently plucking feathers out of the birds who hit her family home's large glass window and died. Preferred holding them with a plastic bag over one hand, looking into their mouths, singing to them, wondering why they'd died. Much preferred this to spoon feeding infants glop. But Molly did learn to care for living things too, Toby's proof of that, though he mostly cares for himself. But this isn't much different, rubbing clear anti-bacterial creme onto all the little cuts on his hands, patiently pinching the bridge of Jim's bloody nose for him, because he won't do it himself for long enough to actually stop the bleeding. Feeling for broken ribs. Jim's not puffing himself up to be taller than he actually is. He's just Jim, sitting on the edge of the bathtub.

“Careful,” Molly says, softly, hand still touching his side when she's done what she can, “You'll end up dead.”

“That's what people do,” he says, “Everyone dies, Molly, everyone, everyone.”

“I know.”

But if he dies, she'll be locked in here alone, and then what will she do?


	9. Chapter 9

“Hello,” John says to the receptionist. If he leans over the counter just a little, he can get a decent peek at the netting of her black and pink bra. He glances at Sherlock, who rolls his eyes and starts flicking through a beaten up leaflet of local restaurants in the area.

John feels staying at a hotel, in London, is excessive, given that he already technically rents two flats in London. (Mrs Hudson refused to re-rent 221B, and John didn't argue.) But who's Sherlock if not excessive? If it'll be easier to break into the room they're looking for, so be it. Sherlock ranted about gravel for twenty minutes, insisting this was the place they needed to be, so John's not going to push it. 

“How are you, then?” John asks the receptionist, though he doesn't have the same gusto for asking out women as he used to.

“Just fine,” she says, smiling. She's a little young for him, not bad. “Let's see,” she glances at one of his not exactly legal driving licences that Sherlock acquired. “Hudson, Hudson, yes, here we are, pre-paid by phone? Well. Oh, well, here's the thing, same price, but since you called so late, we've only got a room with a queen, instead of the two doubles? But I'm sure,” she says conspiratorially, “You won't mind.” She gives him and then, blatantly, Sherlock, a beaming, approving smile. 

John is about to protest, the “I” in “I'm not gay,” is practically out already, but then he remembers wondering if maybe that didn't help along Sherlock's suicide. It's stupid now, it's pointless now, Sherlock never offed himself, but John wondered then if maybe making a fuss and denying Sherlock even, well, that basic sort of mistaken closeness, might have helped things along, made Sherlock feel... hopeless. The man didn't have many friends as it was. Maybe it got depressing to not have anyone in a romantic way either. Would it have helped? He'd wondered. Even if it was pretend, purely for the sake of strangers? Even if Sherlock never actually felt that way about anyone?

“That's fine, good,” John says. He makes the mistake of glancing at Sherlock again, who stares at John like he's got some kind of brain-eating caterpillar coming out of his nose—a little fascinated, and a lot shocked. John's an idiot. Sherlock never committed suicide, probably never felt suicidal in his life, the narcissistic git. Sherlock doesn't need this kind of affirmation.

“'Good'? Unusual,” Sherlock says, after they get their keys.

“What? She was friendly.”

“Yes. That's not the surprising part,” Sherlock says. He always has to push. “You're usually considerably less than friendly when people start suggesting—” 

“Leave it alone, Sherlock,” John says, and Sherlock quiets. 

Sherlock's lips are sort of chapped around the edges, splotchy red blending itself outward from the pink of his lips. John wonders if he should grab some menthol lip balm next time he's in the shops, even though Sherlock hasn't mentioned it. Sherlock hasn't commanded him to do anything since he's been back. John wonders how long that'll last. 

 

There are two other faked names (besides John's, of course) on the hotel log. John manages to wrangle out of Sherlock that neither of the suspects check out for another two days, so he insists that they both get some sleep before possibly getting killed. Sherlock's buzzed up on energy from the case, but otherwise drooping on his feet. 

They fight over the bed. Not who gets it, but rather, who doesn't. Sherlock insists he won't sleep anyway, they have a case. John, fed up with the idea of Sherlock staying awake when the man's got a colour one could reasonably call purple under his eyes, and his cheekbones are sticking out all over the place, finally says, voice raised a bit, “Sherlock, I'm your doctor, you've been dead and laying around god knows where, and I've been kipping on a mattress day in and day out. Take the damn bed.” 

Sherlock, poised squinting at a scratch in the corner of the hotel mirror, squirms his mouth at John but doesn't protest anymore.

 

John drifts awake twenty minutes before the alarm. He turns it off before it can ring (alarms while he's awake always give him the willies). 

The bed's empty when John glances over at it, and his stomach flips, adrenaline buzzing down his arms. For a second, he thinks he's lost it. Sherlock is dead, of course he's dead, and John's drunk and has just woken up on the floor of some B&B, probably with a number scrap in his wallet from a woman he won't call for two or three months, when he starts feeling like shit for not having a girlfriend, and Sherlock's dead and aren't those the worst kinds of dreams, much worse than nightmares. The ones where Sherlock's alive again and John just wants to just sleep, because life's not better than that. 

A palpable sense of relief unclenches John's chest when he sees the chair in the corner of the room, and still-clothed legs and arms attached to a very alive, visibly breathing, and heavily sleeping Sherlock. Sherlock's bottom lip hangs open just a little in sleep, his chin squished down towards his chest in more ridiculous folds than a man that skinny should ever be able to produce, hipbones visible under belt-cinched trousers, hands twitching slightly, probably still deducing in his sleep. John regrets his own courteousness about the bed. His back hurts like hell.

Sherlock jerks awake, like a myoclonic twitch from some kind of falling dream. Shit. Falling. Sherlock actually did jump, didn't he? That part wasn't a trick, though John's been ignoring his curiosity about the rest of the details. God, John hopes Sherlock doesn't have those nightmares. But now he wonders.

Sherlock opens his eyes too wide, which puts a peculiar, long, drawn-out expression on his face. He blinks rapidly several times, then John feels more than notices Sherlock's gaze slide over him, from top of head down, darting back and forth, taking in every detail, all the way to John's bare, and slightly chilled toes. Sherlock always looks at him like this, but it's been a while. It'll take some getting used to again. John shifts uncomfortably, tugging his t-shirt down over the bit of flesh on his stomach that's pudging out from the top of his pyjama bottoms, not that Sherlock hasn't already counted every miniscule fraction of a stone he's put on in Sherlock's absence. 

Sherlock's eyes snap back to John's face. “I wasn't sleeping,” Sherlock says, voice slightly slurred from a dry mouth.

John shakes his head, astounded. “Yes, you were.” The ridiculousness of some of the man's arguments, really.

Sherlock stares at him, face blank and haughty for John daring to disagree. Sherlock, still not breaking eye contact, tucks fingers under his chin, leg still draped across one arm of the chair, one leg rocking back and forth. John glares back from his cross-legged position on the floor. They continue their staring contest in the time they could be taking to find out more about (possibly) Moriarty's people, or, at the very least, in the time they could be taking to eat some very processed, stale muffins at the hotel buffet. 

John's not sure which one of them starts laughing first, but one of them does, and then they both do.

It's not until later, when John turns the shower handle, that he realises his hand tremor has disappeared again, even as a new kind of shaking has started, somewhere in the lining of his lungs, feels like. It's not a completely unusual sensation, this warm buzzing. It's not completely new. But the circumstances are... different. And the sensation is stupidly powerful. And Sherlock's alive. 

John nods once to himself, puts it aside, and closes his eyes to the lukewarm water tapping the top of his head.


	10. Chapter 10

Molly thinks about Carl Powers a lot these days. 

These days filled with nothing but Jim and more Jim, balancing Jim's finance accounts by hand with a ballpoint pen and some scraps of paper, because he can do it, of course he can do it, but he has no patience for it. He gives things to dissect when he's gone for days at a time, because he doesn't want her to lose her skill. The crunch and slice is calm, repetitive. He gives her lots of DVDs, too, though no internet, and no aerial for the telly. She has access, now, to the entire suite, except for the locked second bedroom. She begins to realise this is actually where Jim lives, at least sometimes.

Then there's Carl Powers. Molly knows Jim wasn't lying. He didn't kill Carl Powers for fun, he killed him because he had no alternatives. Because Jim was, once, a child, just like everyone else. Jim killed Carl Powers, and because he killed Carl Powers, Molly knows he has a heart, knows that Sherlock, during that trial, was wrong. Jim's not a spider, he's a man. 

She tries to remember this, when his eyes are completely empty, because sometimes they're a warm brown, instead, and big, too big for his face, just like her nose is too small and pointy for hers. Sometimes Molly thinks she could love him, in a way she could have never loved stuttering, fidgeting, sweet, night shift tech Jim. Jim Moriarty's not really all right. But he's real. And he's not bad, either, not all bad. And Molly's not all good, now, is she?

Today, Jim asks her if she's bored here. Even though Molly's only sitting on the edge of her bed, thinking quietly, all his bank numbers in order, she says no. She's not. Even with no job to go to, and no friends to see, this is the least bored she's ever been.

He descends on her quickly, the forefinger and thumb of his hand pinching her nose shut, the same hand's palm pressing, suctioning down onto her whole mouth. “Don't lie to me! It is boring, isn't it? Everything repeating, the world circling,” Jim says. 

Every time Molly tries to hitch in her breath, chest jerking, he repeats “over,” a breath hitch, “over,” again, and her eyes are getting very wide now and she tries biting his palm but he presses down harder, “and over.” 

Her leg twitches hard, and her eyes start to roll back, head sinking down into the mattress, hearing starting to fog. But he hasn't killed her so far, and he doesn't this time, either. Jim releases his grip abruptly, and Molly gasps, inhales oxygen with a rush that almost makes her laugh. 

“No passing out,” he says, eyes dark, mouth set into a pout, and taps her face with four fingers pressed together, until he pulls away. He's going to leave again, but not before Molly sees, she knows she sees, that Jim's hard in his Armani trousers (yes, she knows all his brands now, she can tell now, and they're always changing).

He's aroused because of her. 

And there's an ache right to Molly's core that tells her she is, too, from the oxygen, but most importantly from the oxygen he's taken away, and that it's Jim who's taken it. He's aroused and not going to do a thing about it, he's leaving, even though she's sure it's not her that's boring, not her that's bored. It's him. Jim's so bored he can barely stand it. He's trapped, too. Molly sees it. 

_Carl Powers_ , she thinks, and she makes a choice. Everyone makes their own choices in life, Jim says. Molly takes in a big gulping breath, and before Moriarty can walk away out of her reach, she reaches a hand out and fumbles with the flies of his dress slacks. 

His hand slams down on her wrist in an instant. "What do you think _you're_ doing?" Moriarty tightens his grip, and pushes his perfectly trimmed fingernails into the soft skin of her wrist, deeper, deeper, until a slow haze of blood draws up underneath his nails. 

Molly licks her lips, trying not to wince, and keeps reaching, hooking her thumb and forefinger on his zip, tugging it down only a centimetre before Jim snaps her wrist back, primed to break. "When I ask you a question, you should answer me." She stares up into his eyes, doesn't move, her wrist hurting, her wrist hurting so much, but he hasn't broken it, not yet. Hasn't killed her. Hasn't broken a bone.

Molly gives him a smile. Moriarty slaps her hard across the face. 

She grips his hips with the backs of her heels, and tug him off-balance, suddenly, between her legs, locking onto his neck with her teeth. "Well, well, well," Jim gasps, and now he sounds impressed. "If you insist, darling." He finally, finally removes his grip on her wrist, and lets her tug his flies down all the way. Jim hisses when she touches him. Molly wonders how long it's been since anyone's touched him like this. It's been a long time for her. Since Jim from IT, actually, and they barely did a thing. 

For the first time since then, Jim Moriarty kisses her. 

His lips, like this, are less pliant than Jim's, but the way Moriarty's hooded eyes look at her is the way that scared her with Jim, because she didn't know why he stared like that. But everything's out in the open, now. He's not lying to her anymore, and Molly's changed, too. Everything is changeable, and she's not afraid of him anymore.

It's just like killing, she thinks, being able to do this to him, to someone like Jim Moriarty, taking away some of his control. Jim's eyes actually close, he actually lets out a noise, when she helps him inside her, past her underwear, and Molly pulls him down onto her, closer, squirming under his bites along her neck, starting to make little mewling noises herself. 

It's more rubbing than thrusting when she comes, rotating her hips in a circle, the curve of her mons swiping against his flat pelvis, over and over. Her thighs start quivering around Jim, and suddenly, like lungs forced with too much air, the feeling unexpectedly bursts, her hip movements stagger, and Molly comes, pulsing, one of his thumbs pressing a dip into her chin as his fingers curl around her jaw. Jim thrusts harder, grunts, comes, too, as she squeezes around him. It's because of her. She's done that to him. 

Molly touches Jim's hair gently, not sure if she'll get her aching wrist and hand hit away, but, unexpectedly, he still holds her, kissing her face and saying, “You're beautiful, Molly Molly Molly, so pretty,” saying lovely things, nuzzling her. 

Then Jim says, “You really need a shower. Ick.” 

Molly laughs a little, because she thinks he's teasing, but then he rolls away from her. 

“No,” he says, voice louder, “You're disgusting. Get in the shower. GET THE FUCK INTO THE SHOWER.”

 

Molly barely gets the chance to finish rinsing off all the soap when Jim's pulls back the shower curtain, even though she swears she locked the bathroom door. 

“Hi,” he says, and he's smiling happy as ever, naked now, with tight, scrawny musculature. 

She stands under the water, not sure what he wants her to do. Jim climbs in and cleans himself three times over without looking at her. He gets soap in his eyes once and rubs them vigorously with balled fists. The gesture makes him look so young, so vulnerable, and she thinks _Carl Powers_ , and is suddenly very, very sad, and touches a tile with her thumb because Molly doesn't think Jim would let her touch him right now. 

Finally, he sets the soap down and rinses. He leans in and kisses her softly on the forehead. Molly lets out a little noise and leans in towards him, but Jim says, “Ta,” climbs out of the shower, and turns the hot water off entirely. 

The transition to freezing water is cruel and abrupt. She lets out a little shriek in the cold, before turning off the tap, and clambering to bundle in a towel. Jim, without another word, naked and dripping, walks away and closes his bedroom door behind him. 

Molly thinks this probably means she still can't sleep there tonight. She tries the handle. Locked. She goes back to her own room.

 

Early the next morning, Jim—wearing a new pressed suit, with the shoes that mean he's going to go intimidate someone—tosses a box of Levonelle One Step at her. Molly fumbles and drops it to the floor. 

“Take it,” he says. “We have to get you on something for next time. No little babies writhing around, no, no, no.” 

Next time. She smiles, letting her triumph show, just a fraction. 

Later that evening, Molly taps her fingernails on the toilet seat in between fits of vomiting, a side effect. Common, for one in ten who take it, and she really might be to blame, because she read the warning label, and warning labels make her queasy. Jim enters the bathroom. He pushes a cold, wet flannel to her forehead and the back of her neck. The water drips down unpleasantly, because he hasn't squeezed it out properly. 

He doesn't say a word of comfort, solemn, with an expression of distaste. But, sometimes, he's not all bad.


	11. Chapter 11

As soon as they break into the first room, John immediately starts back to the hallway. “Nope,” he mutters. “Sherlock, wrong room.” There's a high-throated moan coming from the bathroom area, and John doesn't need to be a genius to deduce what that means. 

But Sherlock glances at John quizzically, and says, “Someone in distress.”

John stares at him. “What? No, Sherlock, no, I'm sure that's not—” 

Sherlock runs in anyway, and the next thing John knows, he hears Sherlock say to strangers' disbelieving yells, “Ah, room service! _So_ sorry.”

Sex doesn't alarm him, Sherlock has sworn before, but John will also swear Sherlock looks embarrassed. “False name because of an affair, obviously,” Sherlock says, grimacing. 

“Yeah, imagine so.” John shakes off a giggle that threatens to rise within him. They brush shoulders as they flee.

All the blinds are closed tight in the next room. Even with the light from the hallway, John squints and blinks a few times. When Sherlock shuts the door behind them, he stares wide at almost nothing while his eyes adjust. 

In the mean time, Sherlock figures something out by means John can only pretend to imagine, and breathes “Yes,” too close to John's head. John pinches his lips shut and shifts away from Sherlock, taking a look around the room, which is still colourless but now at least has definable lines. It's practically empty. He can't even see a suitcase. But Sherlock's doing something, sniffing at a patch of carpet on the floor, and John bounces on his heels, hand on gun, waiting for Sherlock to suggest something, to start spilling off ideas. 

Sherlock stands, then freezes. John sees him stiffen, a black silhouette of curls and coat in front of the tiny cracks of pale light behind the blinds. Then Sherlock pulls him to the darkest corner of the room, shoving John against the corner and shushing his “Watch it!” as Sherlock descends in on him, standing far too close. 

Sure enough, the front door opens to heavy, dragging steps, then a click of the closing latch, the squeaking of wheels, a hard thump, a low curse, some coughing. Sherlock, practically quivering, nods very slowly and slightly, probably for John's benefit. It has to be the killer. The door opens and closes, and now he's gone again. But Sherlock doesn't move from his place hovering over John. John's backed completely into the corner, Sherlock's arms and elbows on either side of his shoulders.

John listens, but doesn't hear anything. To make up for the increasingly claustrophobic feeling and to get some kind of clarification, he asks, “Sherlock, what are we waiting for?”

“Quiet,” Sherlock hisses, and pushes one of his hands against John's mouth because Sherlock has no bloody concept of boundaries. John shakes his head to push Sherlock's hand off, and Sherlock only presses tighter. “You're going to get us killed, John,” he says, so quietly that John can barely feel Sherlock's breath against his forehead, but can, just a bit, and it makes him furious, downright furious, even though he obeys and stays still. 

The air conditioning in the room surges on with a low hum, and John still can't see any reason to think the killer's coming back. Not yet, anyway—if they wait around in this corner for another half an hour, then, maybe, yeah.

Sherlock is a bundle of tensed nerves. Heat surges off him like a radiator, with subtle shiftings of tensing and untensing and retensing trembling muscle, even though he's not making a sound. John can smell Sherlock's clean sweat under the coat. John forgets that Sherlock even sweats at all. (Sherlock's alive.) 

Sherlock shifts, draws in a soundless shallow breath up against John, and that's it, John's done here, because Christ, Jesus Christ, there's a tension behind John's belly button, and at all once the aggravating warmth in his groin surges stronger and he's harder than he's been in years, of all things, of all things that could be happening. Christ, he's a piece of shit. John lets out a quiet huff and tries to shift away. One of Sherlock's hands latches onto John's shoulder, and gives him a hard press against the wall.

“Wait, John, you have to wait,” Sherlock whispers, and it's more that John can see the words on his lips than hear them and Christ, Christ, he can feel the shift of air from Sherlock's breath.

John keeps his face fixed and emotionally flat. “Sherlock, move,” he says, steadily. 

“The room's occupant will—”

“Move. Get out of my way.” 

Sherlock's brows furrow in the dark, his eyes squinting into John's, mouth pursued exasperatedly and too bloody close to John's face, lips too big and curled and puffed up to be decent. “Surely you can stand to be near me for _one more instant_. There's no one here to _talk_.” Sherlock's low, quiet tone, matching the radiator hum, is still biting, and it hurts, but John's too panicked to think much about it.

“No, Sherlock, damn it, move, move right this second,” John hisses, desperate, and pushes Sherlock with increased effort now. 

Sherlock is wild eyed and furious, too, now, head snapping in every direction looking for some kind of deduction about John's words and actions. “John, what do you think you're doing, you idiotic—”

In the silent, wrestling skirmish between them, Sherlock's thigh slips and presses against John's groin, and John's so hard it hurts, and he sees Sherlock's eyes widen just a bit, in the scant dusty glint of streetlight through the windows. Sherlock's changes into a small “o” shape of realization, a thin, quick line of spit between the inside of his top and bottom lip forming, before it snaps and pools back with the rest of Sherlock's saliva over his tongue. He stops fighting John, loosens his grip, pulls back.

John makes one quick, hard shove, says, louder, “Get the hell off me.” 

This, of course, is the exact moment the killer chooses to come back, as Sherlock apparently bloody well knew he would. 

Just as John storms towards the exit, with no plan other than he needs to get the hell away from Sherlock, he finds himself blinded by the hallway light from the flung-open door. Suddenly, he's grunting with effort, tackled, as the killer tries to grab the gun tucked into his jacket pocket, and he heels the man in the kidneys with a crooked-around leg, before a chiming, crashing sound rings out. John scrambles to his feet. Sherlock's thumped an old corded phone onto the killer's head, but he's not unconscious, Sherlock didn't do it hard enough. The killer grabs at Sherlock's ankle with one hand, starts reaching into his own jacket pocket with the other. 

John aims his gun, squeezes the trigger and shoots him in the head, grateful for the silencer.

One quick splatter later, Sherlock breathes hard, and stares at John. “He was just a lackey,” Sherlock begins. “He had a knife but he didn't have a—”

Christ, John's made a mistake. “Sorry,” John says. “Sorry. You probably wanted—I'm a little rusty—you probably wanted to ask him—” His nerves are jumpier than ever before, and the man could have—could have reasonably hurt Sherlock. How was he supposed to deduce he didn't have a gun? 

John's attempt at escape now seems ridiculous, unreal. He's nowhere near turned-on right now, exactly the opposite. Shit, shit, shit. “He had you—he could have easily been carrying—” _I couldn't let you die again_ , is what John really means to say, but he doesn't.

Sherlock shakes his head, and says, “It doesn't matter. I'll get data anyway.”

Sherlock swiftly turns to inspect the room service cart the man pushed into the room, and the heavy bag that fell from it. John smells blood when the bag opens, and he doesn't have to ask what's inside, has no need to look. He didn't kill a saint, that's for sure.

“How'd it happen?” John asks.

“Scalpel, carotid.” He sees Sherlock squint in the dark. “Much cleaner death than the last. Skilled.”

“Still—uh.” John catches his breath. “Still related?”

“It would appear so, unless our late friend here was a prolific criminal mercenary. Unlikely, his pocket lining indicates otherwise.”

John doesn't ask. He has a bad feeling that he's just destroyed clues Sherlock would really love to have. “Should we check out tonight?”

Sherlock shakes his head, re-zips the bag, and uses wipes from his pocket to clear off his prints. “We're not the targets. Yet. Don't step in any of the blood on the way out. We can go back to the room. They won't be as thorough with the investigation of his death once they connect him with a long history of violent crimes.” Sherlock removes his shoe and holds it, rolls up one also splattered trouser leg, then says, “We need to go. Now.”

 

John hides his gun away where Sherlock suggests police won't search. He should probably keep it put away until he gets his nerves back. John rotates his ankle carefully to check his range of motion, sitting on the edge of the bed. Seems fine. Sherlock's looking at him.

“Get it over with. Go on,” John says. 

He knows Sherlock will know what he means. He doesn't know if Sherlock's analysing his trigger-happy mistake, or his physical reaction. Either way, John just wants Sherlock to ask him already, to say it aloud, so John can go back to hating himself in peace.

“It's a chemical reaction to physical closeness and anxiety-induced physiological changes,” Sherlock, still leaning on the table, suggests dismissively. Ah, that then. Sherlock's eyelids are heavy, hooding his eyes. It makes him look completely inaccessible, downright haughty. Prick. Then again, he's also giving John an out. 

John squeezes his eyes shut, and really just wants to say, over and over, yell it, _“I'm not gay, all right?”_ but he opens them up again, and all of a sudden, the look in Sherlock's eyes is bizarre, frankly. Vulnerable, intense in a way that's completely different from Sherlock's cold voice when he adds, “Potentially a reaction stimulated from the vocalisations of the woman in the previous room.”

“Cheers,” John says, then, “No, you know what, no.” Sherlock's been dead, and they've both been lying. John doesn't take the out. “No, no. That's not it.” He sighs, furrowing his brow, pinching right above the bridge of his nose, then opens his eyes again, focusing his gaze on the bedspread. “What if—” John begins, then shakes his head. Christ, he feels sick. “What if—”

“Then that's—that's fine. Good, that's good.” Sherlock suddenly moves away from the table and starts fiddling with the fire escape chart on the door. He pries it out of its plastic holder, inspects it carefully, even though John knows Sherlock already memorised it as soon as they first checked in.

“It's not all right,” John says, shaking his head jerkily, looking down at one knee, setting his jaw. “It's not all right to joke about this. That's more than not good, Sherlock.”

“What leads you to believe I'm joking?” Now Sherlock sounds like he's getting irritated. Good. They both as well might be.

John looks up. “But you told me you don't have those kinds of—”

Sherlock waves his hand dismissively. “Change is a life constant.”

“Profound, that.” John stands gingerly, sighing frustrated, hand on the back of his neck, his bad leg hurting, probably from being tackled. 

Sherlock says, “It's still psychosomatic." 

John snaps, “Sherlock, stop.” 

But Sherlock keeps going, “I already evaluated your injuries and determined they're negligible.” 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, will you—”

“There was a sniper trained on you, if I didn't jump, if I didn't die. Convincingly. I couldn't do anything else, you have to understand this.”

Sherlock touches John's arm, then grips it like John gripped his when Sherlock first returned. He stares into Sherlock's pale eyes, except right now they don't look pale because Sherlock's pupils are wide. There's a fleck, a mar on one of his irises that John's never noticed before—never observed, Sherlock would say. John finally nods, licks his lips impulsively, and like a mirror, Sherlock licks his own. His eyes flicker from John's lips to John's eyes and back again. 

John's not an idiot. He knows exactly what that means, even though Sherlock looks lost and uncertain, still clutching John's arm. John starts to hear the gush of his own heartbeat in his ears, and he tips his head in just a fraction, one halted, short motion. Sherlock starts to look hopeful, and it's too much.

“I'm going to bed,” John announces, and Sherlock drops his hand away from John as John pulls back. John's hit with guilt and self-loathing, and honestly, he wants to reach out to Sherlock, like he reached out to him from the street to the rooftop, except this time he could touch Sherlock, he could actually reach him. John wants to. But he doesn't move his arms. 

Sherlock doesn't look at him, and says, “I'm going out, don't bother to come after me. A waste of your time, nothing dangerous or interesting. I'll be back in a few hours.” And then Sherlock's gone, door clicking shut behind him. 

After changing, John lies flat on his back, eyes squeezed shut, willing himself to sleep. He lets out a huff of frustration and rolls onto his side, grimacing and pushing his face into the pillow. Despite his best intentions, John's body edges into arousal again, thinking of the most stupid things, like the wet inner corners of Sherlock's inquiring eyes, and the twitching line next to Sherlock's nose, and the way Sherlock's breath smelled like the pastrami from lunch under the four packets of sugar he stirred into John's dinner coffee without asking before drinking the whole thing, and the two freckles on the left side of Sherlock's neck, and John sticks his hand down his pyjama bottoms. He grips his cock and tugs the foreskin a little harder and quicker than he usually likes, trying to get this over with. 

John tries to push away the thought that Sherlock will know, will most definitely know, out of his mind, because it makes him feel nauseated. But as soon as his mind latches onto the thought, it won't let go. Sherlock will know, Sherlock will smell the ammonia musk of semen in the room, no matter how much John cleans up. Sherlock will give him a look and know exactly what John thought about while jerking himself off. Even if Sherlock looks away again and doesn't say a word. The heat of Sherlock's thigh seeped through trousers and jeans against John's cock in the dark corner of that room. Sherlock will know exactly what he's thinking. Something rises and rises in John's abdomen until he wonders vaguely if he's really going to choke up his dinner all over the sheets. Instead, John comes hot and slippery into the palm of his hand, shuddering hard and grunting, collapsing into soundless convulsions, cock twitching out the last of his orgasm and whatever energy was left in his body. 

John doesn't want to move. He smears the cupped pool in his palm against his thigh, determined to shower in a couple of hours when nightmares wake him up. The fabric of his bottoms stick to his leg and tug at his leg hairs a bit. John rolls onto his stomach, panting, and thinks he can fall asleep for real this time, and easily, which almost never happens.

He's doomed.


	12. Chapter 12

“Go ahead, make Daddy proud,” Moriarty says behind her, gripping her hipbones with each hand, and Molly sucks on her bottom lip, smiling. Jim has his own morgue. Of course he has his own morgue, he has his own everything. And she's his mortician now, he's told her so, officially.

“Well, um. Time of death,” Molly squints and thinks back. She doesn't really have to check the body for this. Just after lunch, which Jim likes having exactly at noon. “Approximately 1300 hours? Cause of death, drowning.”

“Yeah? Really? And how do you know, how could you possibly know that?”

“Um,” Molly says, looking back at him uncertainly. “Because I did it?” 

He grins and she sees the places his gums are receding and sees his wet tongue and she loves him and he says, “Well, obviously. I mean—” Jim gasps, mouth in an oval, horrified. “Whatever do you mean, Dr. Hooper?”

She giggles and he pulls her against him with a tug to her ponytail. All Molly feels is warm, and she makes a long scalpel cut. The blood comes gushing, spilling. “There's almost never much blood pressure,” she says. “Except in the case of drowning.”

“Good!” Jim says and rocks her side to side, lifting her ponytail up to kiss the back of her neck.

“Not sure why,” Molly adds. “It's just how it happens.”

“We'll have to ask Sherlock on that one,” Jim says, voice suddenly low and dangerous. She tenses. She hasn't thought about Sherlock in a long time now. “He knows all about these things.”

“No, I'd rather not ask him,” she says.

“He hasn't worried much about you, has he? Forgotten all about you? He doesn't know just how special you are.”

Jim snaps her hair barrettes open and closed against her skull, so all Molly hears is a tap tap tap as she begins to cut the vertebral column, frowning in focus against the rattling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-3-320666283)
> 
> [Johnlock Big Bang 3](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-3-320666283) by [kironomi](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/)


	13. Chapter 13

John's still sleeping when he gets the call. 

Sherlock's in the shower, steam and fluorescent lights flooding under the crack of the bathroom door. It's barely 4 a.m. John answers with a groggy “What's up?” Lestrade never calls anymore. John wasn't forgiving of Greg's doubt. Now he wonders if Greg's heard.

“Sorry, John. Know you're not fond of me right now, but just got called in to check out a fire at a crematorium.” John waits for more explanation. “I wanted to call you because Molly Hooper's involved as a victim.”

John sits up in a flash. “Shit.”

“I'm sorry, yeah. She's, uh, she passed away, this morning, before anyone got there. Probably an accident, but we need to take a look.”

“Shit,” John repeats, stomach churning unpleasantly. 

“I thought you'd want to know. And maybe we should catch up, later, if you're up for it—I didn't check in with Molly. Really should have. Need to make more time for the rest of my friends, you know?”

John remembers Greg's apologies, his insistence that he believed in Sherlock, too. John, stiff-lipped at the funeral that Sherlock would have hated, thought Greg's regrets were fake. But things are different now. And this isn't something Sherlock will want to stay away from.

John says, “Sherlock's alive, Greg.”

To Greg's credit, there's only silence on the other end of the phone, before, “Christ, course he is.” A low breath out. “I know him and Molly were close, weren't they? In their own weird way? Hard to tell, but... he won't let this one go, will he? I could get sacked for this, permanently this time, but—you two coming over?”

“Yeah, we are,” John says, glancing at Sherlock, who's opened the bathroom door, looking at John with interest. Sherlock exits, along with a gust of steam, some tips of his hair still dripping wet onto his long-sleeve buttoned shirt. This is the first time of all their time living and travelling together that John's ever seen Sherlock come out of the shower fully dressed, instead of in some kind of bathrobe or towels. He's sure their... talk... yesterday has something to do with it, but that's the last thing he wants to think about right now. “Text the address?”

“Yep. See you in a bit.”

John hangs up, and Sherlock immediately asks, “Who's died?”

John gets it over with. “Molly.”

The look on Sherlock's face makes John wonder how he and everyone else could have been idiots enough to think Sherlock has no emotions. The most human human being. John wasn't lying. 

“Of course,” Sherlock says. “Of course.” He's agitated now, pacing again. John licks his lips and stares at Sherlock, at a loss. “People relevant to me, to my hiding,” Sherlock says. "The network's been compromised. It was only a matter of time. And I haven't checked on her, of course I haven't, she was better off without, of course I thought she was better off. You haven't, either, you haven't bothered talking to much of anyone, but _of course_. Mycroft could have offered her some kind of— of _course_ it was her next, how could I be so _stupid_ —” Sherlock slams his hand down against the small room table with his last word, and rattles the lamp's loose bulb in its socket.

“Sherlock—”

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock snaps, and turns, wild-eyed, to John.

“Sorry,” John says. “Really sorry about Molly.” He means it. 

Sherlock nods, then says, “Are we leaving?”

“Yeah—let me just—”

“We need to leave, we need to leave now, before they contaminate the crime scene with their incompetence.”

“All right—I just—”

“We're in a hurry, don't bother showering, it doesn't matter to me,” Sherlock says, but now he's evading John's eyes. John remembers the state he fell asleep in last night and finds himself flushing. Damn him, he did know Sherlock would know.

But he grabs clothes from his suitcase and heads into the bathroom to change before Sherlock starts breaking things. John, at the very least for the Met's benefit, rinses and spits some mouthwash, sprays on some deodorant. 

“'Crime scene?' Lestrade said it was probably an accidental death, some kind of accidental fire,” John says.

“Well, homicide division's there anyway, isn't it? And he would say that, wouldn't he, he's an idiot.”

Of all times, now is not the time for John's mouth to quirk into a smile, but it does anyway, as he and Sherlock glance at each other out the door. Sherlock touches John along the spine, to push him along faster, saying, “We need to hurry. This data is vitally important.” But even when John speeds up, and he's actually ahead of Sherlock's pace—a difficult feat to accomplish, given the man's absurdly long legs—John can feel Sherlock's hand linger against John's back, just for a bit. It could have been an accident, he's distracted after all, but John's really not sure that's the reason.

 

John never gets used to the barbecue pork smell of burnt flesh and smoke, even though he's smelled it more times than he cares to count. Silence falls over the scene when Sherlock, coat fluttering behind him, strides onto the scene, John at his side. One officer John doesn't recognise drops his radio to the concrete ground. Lestrade pats John on the back in greeting, then, only looking a little like he's staring at a ghost, pulls Sherlock into a firm handshake-hug. “Good to have you back,” Greg says, and Sherlock nods, before moving closer to the decrepit remains of the building, grabbing a set of gloves from a box on the hood of a police car.

“So sorry about Molly,” John says to Greg, following after Sherlock. “God, really sorry.” 

Lestrade sighs heavily. “Me too.” Then he grimaces as Sherlock steps with a crunch into debris. “Careful! Ten minutes max, Sherlock. Then get the hell out of here before we all get thrown in jail.” 

“The official story, Inspector?” calls Sherlock, inspecting a scrap of wood beaming from the collapsed ceiling.

Lestrade sighs. “Best I know it, Bart's has been trying to cut costs by eliminating the cremation pick-up service. Started having an on-duty attendant doing transport instead. Molly got back from annual leave, then happened to offer—”

“Happened?” Sherlock echoes.

Lestrade grunts. “Yes, _happened_ , this is what happened, she offered to deliver a cadaver for a tired co-worker.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums.

“'Hmm' yourself,” Lestrade says, jerking his chin in Sherlock's direction.

“Co-worker's name?” John asks, just as he sees Sherlock open his mouth. Sherlock closes it again and nods. 

Lestrade nods, too. “I'll get you all the paperwork. Basically, Molly was more than qualified. Nice favour, exactly something Molly'd do, she's always—she was always nice.” 

“Christ,” John says, because it's true. Horrible way for her to go. Molly was really, really nice. 

“So, the fire started, you can see the facility's not up-to-date for housing ovens like these. Really quick, really hot, easy to get trapped. Somebody's gonna get sued over this.” Lestrade sighs. “We found Molly's body, the worker's body, too, and, course, the body transported here in the first place. The working theory's that the machine malfunctioned. I know Sherlock'll want to go through everything, but honestly I don't think this is a job for us.” They step deeper inside the debris. A cremation oven with blown-out, broken doors is one of the only things still standing. Two bodies are sectioned off on the floor. “Wicked coincidence, awful accident, but it was bound to happen. Just a pity it happened to Molly, she was just really—”

“Murdered.” Sherlock squints at what was once a temperature dial, and pokes a ballpoint pen into the oven, stirring. “Oh, they are good.” 

John shifts uncomfortably. Not this again. Not right now, Sherlock.

“What now? You sure you're not just looking for it too hard?” Lestrade asks.

“The temperature was set too high,” Sherlock says, “for the fat content of the corpse. Easy to judge by the composition of the remains. Molly's no idiot, as long as I'm not around. This worker's a lifer, working in a wooden crematorium for years, obviously good at his job, else he'd have burned the whole place down long before this. A family to take care of, too, wasn't feeling particularly suicidal, and even if he were, burning alive wouldn't be his method of choice, not after this job. One in 11 deaths are linked to obesity in the UK, surely he would have been practised at turning the settings down to an acceptable range. And yet, the ovens were intentionally set too high. Adipocytes cause the ovens to burn far hotter than they're intended for, causing the blow out that caught the place on fire so quickly. Not to mention—”

John stares at Sherlock, and says, “Brilliant,” forgetting for a moment everything—his anger, the way he feels clamped with shame when he looks at Sherlock sometimes, the fact that they're talking about Molly—and says, “Really brilliant.” 

Sherlock looks startled, with just the slightest up-twitch in the corner of his lips, and John remembers he hasn't done this in a really long time.

“No,” Lestrade says, “No, not brilliant. The dial could've been bumped, or the machine could've been malfunctioning, or—”

“ _Not to mention_ ,” Sherlock continues, “The worker was murdered far before the fire.” He points at the larger of the two corpses. 

Lestrade and John stare at him blankly, and he shakes his head with an aggravated sigh, gesturing harder, as if that'll help them bloody understand, arm flailing. Yeah, that really works.

“Sherlock, come on, now—” Greg says. 

“There's a bullet, Inspector!” Sherlock exclaims. He snaps on his gloves and moves the skull to one side, pushing aside burnt, crumbling flesh by the nape of the neck to reveal, yep, definitely a bullet hole. 

“Shit,” Lestrade says. “We would have caught that eventually.”

“John, check Molly's body for similar indications, tell me your deductions,” Sherlock says, tracing a path away from the bodies and sticking his head in the oven. 

John almost complains that Sherlock's just going to take the piss out of him, and for him to do it his own damn self, but he thinks Sherlock might not be keen on checking the corpse, because it's Molly. Not that Sherlock would ever let on. So John just nods, takes the gloves Greg offers, and squats down. John's stomach lurches a little, but the feeling fades, or maybe he just fades from the feeling, from what's in front of him. He's not quite all here, and that's probably for the best. 

Her face is a horrible, mangled, charred mess, with some glass pieces in it, too; hard to really find any of Molly beneath what he sees, though the body itself isn't fully immolated. Christ, the ovens must have blasted right as she was looking at them. No bullets in the skull as far as he can tell. A quick check of the rest of her, trying to be as respectful as possible with the tatters of her burnt-on clothes, the remnants of a red blouse, tells John the same. “Um, wasn't shot, don't think. Maybe—maybe the worker was shot because he was going to get out?” Oh, this is good, maybe John's on to something. “Tell the police that it wasn't an accident, maybe even identify the killer?”

“Interesting theory,” Sherlock says, and John rolls his eyes, because he knows Sherlock's about to debunk it entirely. “However, the bullet was definitely fired before the ovens were even turned on.”

John, as gently as he can, pries open Molly's stiff jaw, squinting inside to see if he missed a mouth gunshot that never exited the skull. “Her mouth doesn't look weird, besides what the fire's done. No bullet wounds on the roof, tonsils, throat, they all look okay. Don't think she was shot.”

“Tonsils?” Sherlock asks.

“Yes?” What's Sherlock getting at?

“Let me see.” Sherlock's voice is suddenly more urgent. “Can't be.” Sherlock drops onto his haunches beside John, side and thigh pressing against John as he leans to shine a torch into the mouth. John shifts away a little, as subtly as he can while crouching. “There are tonsils.”

“Yeah,” John says. God, he's not that incompetent. “Said that. I am a doctor, you kn—”

“Ah, wrong,” Sherlock breathes out. “I am fallible on occasion.”

“Accident after all?” Lestrade says. “Then how come there's a—” 

“Not a murder, John,” Sherlock says, staring earnestly into John's face, ignoring Greg. “A kidnapping.”

“Kidnapping?” Lestrade sounds about as confused as John feels, watching realization spread over Sherlock's face like expanding solution on his prized Petri dishes.

“Yes, yes, didn't you hear me the first time, a kidnapping. When your DNA tester positively identifies this body, fire them. No sense in pressing charges, doubtful you'll be able to trace the bribe, but it's not worth keeping a criminal on staff. Molly's been kidnapped. Right size, yes, height exact, weight a little off but I haven't seen her in a while, it would be a reasonable margin of error. Face damaged, sensible. It fits. But the mistake, the _mistake_ , is that Molly doesn't have tonsils. Check her medical records. In her home, she has an excess of anti-inflammatories for cold and flu symptoms, well-used, but untouched in years and not replaced, despite the fact that her immune system leaves much to be desired. Why? Habit—chronic tonsillitis, swelling, regular sore throats, she has a high pain tolerance but it made it difficult to swallow, breathe, so she had her tonsils removed by doctor recommendation. Now her illnesses aren't nearly as bad anymore, she's not much for pharmaceuticals anyway, contrast effects mean she feels no need to take the old medication when the worst of the symptoms have abated.” Sherlock jumps up, sudden enough to make Greg twitch, though John is expecting it. Sherlock's all restless energy. “Check her medical records! Ask her doctor! This death was faked. She. Has. Been. _Kidnapped_.”

John peers back in not-Molly's mouth, and yeah, those are definitely tonsils. He'd be relieved, except that he's the reason she's probably suffering right now. Sherlock needed her help to protect him, he's made that much clear to John. John's glad she's not dead, but he wishes she'd never been involved in this in the first place. She never could say no to Sherlock, either. Not at all like someone else he knows too well. 

Hang on. “Sherlock, this is kind of weird, come here.”

Sherlock drops down beside John again, and John tips the head back further. “A little strange, isn't it? Or do you think it's just bad dental work?” The backmost, top right molar is large, too large, really out of place. This person's jaw is small, the whole head is small, and this tooth looks like it belongs to someone twice the size, or, honestly, now that he thinks about it, maybe not even a human. John's not sure. He never trained in orthodontics. During his medical degree, he didn't think there would be anything more aggravating than an office job staring at the saliva of screaming, gagging kids. Plus, he doesn't floss every day. Wouldn't be a very good role model.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, almost reverently. “It is very strange.” John catches Sherlock's look out of the corner of his eye, and swallows hard. Sherlock, delighted, looks like he'd like to either kiss this corpse's mouth, or kiss John for finding the abnormality in the first place. John's not sure which one would make him more uncomfortable. 

Sherlock grabs ash-covered pliers, probably still warm to the touch, off a pile of debris on the ground, and, in time with Lestrade's shout of protest, cracks the tooth out of the mouth.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” Lestrade says, tugging the pliers away from Sherlock, but Sherlock rolls the tooth in his fingers. 

John sees it, too.

Etched in tiny letters on the tooth, visible once rubbed clean, is a single word and a single mark of punctuation: _Hi!_

“Moriarty,” Sherlock says. “Conclusive. He's alive too.”

John puffs out his cheeks and breaths out heavily. “Not done with his fairy tales.”

Sherlock's brows furrow. “What? What's the significance, what do you mean?”

“Red Riding Hood? What big teeth you have?” 

Sherlock stares blankly at John, and John adds, “What big brains you have, all the better to think you with?” 

Lestrade chuckles a bit, before obviously thinking better of it. Sherlock stands again, strips off the gloves, and tugs his scarf a little tighter, starting to fume, which pleases John a bit more than it should.

“You can read all about it when we get back,” John concedes. “There are a million different versions, though, just to warn you.”

“Get out of here, yeah,” Greg says. “I have enough trouble on my hands for inviting you. We'll... confirm things, and open the investigation.”

But they all know it'll be Sherlock and John solving this one. Finding Molly, saving her. They have to. Bringing a case against Moriarty'll work just about as well this time as the last. John stands too, binning his gloves and the ones Sherlock dropped on the ground.

 

Sherlock dumps his things on John's floor, after they check out and get back to John's flat. He pulls off his shoes and socks, and perches on John's desk—not _at_ , of course, like a normal person, but _on_ , not that John really minds—and starts scrolling rapidly on his phone, eyes darting back and forth so fast John feels a headache setting in just watching him. Catching up on kids' stories, no doubt. Forming some kind of plan. They've got to go after Molly soon, but hell if John knows where she's being held. Sherlock will have a better idea. 

John scrubs his hands and face to get the smell of the fire out, then pulls the desk chair out enough to give Sherlock space, sitting down and waiting, arms crossed, for Sherlock to be done. He's a speed-reader, shouldn't be long.

Sure enough, Sherlock finishes and gives John the run-down, even though John already knows all about fairy tales. His childhood was shit, but it wasn't abnormal per se, and he doesn't delete things like a certain consulting detective he knows. 

“Commonplace metaphor for stranger danger,” Sherlock announces. “Inaccurate. Most violent crimes are not committed by strangers. Vulnerable female protagonist. In this case, indicative of Molly. Sly male, Moriarty's self-congratulations. Hidden violence. The original version ends with the consumption of the female by the wolf, without rescue—no, don't look like that, John, Moriarty's not a cannibal. He's just bored as usual, just having _fun_ , nothing that can really help us. Merely an indication to me that he has, in fact, returned, thanks to the message engraved.”

John nods. “Right.” 

Sherlock sets his phone down on the desk, legs dangling off the edge now. John thinks wearily about the company poor Molly's keeping, thanks to them, as Sherlock wiggles those odd long toes of his, flexing their joints and pressing, bridging them just like he bridges his fingers. Sherlock says, “You found the tooth, John.”

“You'd have found it in another second, don't get your feathers ruffled,” John says with a slight smile.

“Of course I would have. I only mean—” Sherlock clears his throat a little. “You, um, you did very well.”

Sherlock complimenting him now? John can't say he's not a bit pleased, but he hopes this isn't another apology. “It was an accident to be perfectly honest. Wasn't looking for—”

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock interrupts, “But you still observed, you saw and you observed.” 

John grins up at Sherlock. “Well, I did have your annoying voice in my head practicing your methods for me while you were gone. Couldn't shut it out.”

“That explains things,” Sherlock teases, smiling now, eyes bright, leaning down. “You're no observational master on your own.”

“Arse,” John says, but there's a warmth spreading inside his stomach. They're really close, Sherlock on the desk, John below him in the desk chair. Sherlock laughs, and John, his pulse fluttering, gives a little snort of a breath through his nose and cranes his head up and forward at the same time that Sherlock's blazing eyes falter and flicker. 

John kisses Sherlock. Sherlock's lips are dry and scratchy around the edges but pliant, absurdly large and soft, barely moving. Shut closed, even when John darts out a tongue, out of habit; nothing more, definitely not trying to French kiss the world's greatest still-presumed-dead detective, nope, or maybe only a bit. Sherlock pushes his face closer to John's with a slight, throaty noise, though his mouth still doesn't open. John's back presses against the hard chair. What's next is definitely all Sherlock, because Sherlock slides down off the desk, with each very, very long leg on either side of John, and then Sherlock's all the way in John's lap, straddling him. 

John feels Sherlock's muscles quivering, twitching just a little, sporadically, but Sherlock isn't even rocking, just sitting heavily on John's thighs, tugging John's trousers tighter in all the most uncomfortable places. John shifts a little to try and get situated, and Sherlock definitely, most definitely makes a noise then, even though he's still not moving his hips, and his lips are too soft, far too soft and far too large. John suddenly can't breathe, so he pulls away, and says “Jesus Christ, Sherlock,” gasping. Sherlock's lips look larger than ever up close, a little swollen, and wetter than before. 

Sherlock's brow furrows and he pulls himself away, standing, looking like he's just realised where he was sitting. It gives John time to adjust and get a little more comfortable, but also sends a draft of cold sweeping over him.

“Bad to make out after a crime scene?” Sherlock asks, pacing now, in a half-joking tone that makes John think he's not joking at all.

“And our friend is kidnapped? Yeah, a bit not good. Sort of inappropriate.” John touches knuckles to his own lips. He can almost still feel the sensation there.

Sherlock notices his gesture, and stops, giving a reluctant smile. “Not entirely bad, though?” 

John's just kissed Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Very, very male Sherlock bloody fucking Holmes, who was a bit shit at snogging, but straddled him. Sat on his lap. Kissed him back. John restrains himself from rubbing a thumb across his lips again, and says, “We have a case, don't we? Isn't this, you know, too much of a distraction?”

“Unfortunately,” Sherlock says, “you're always distracting.”

Oh. _Oh_. Right then. John wants to kiss him again. He doesn't want to want to, but he wants to. Shit. He kissed Sherlock. Shit, shit, shit. “What's the plan?” John asks, and Sherlock looks at him sideways, uncertain, and John says, “For the case.”

“He's obviously playing a game. He doesn't intend to kill her. He'll lay the trap for us, lead us to her location.”

“You're telling me—” John tries to breathe. “You're telling me you're willing to _wait_ for him to _lure_ us, instead of heading after her right this minute, or at least after we both shower, rest up? _You?_ You always want to go rushing off, and now you're seriously telling me—” John feels sick to his stomach, really sick, and he stands up, too, any residual warmth draining from him.

“John, we have no reason to suspect Moriarty's changed his usual criminal technique. We'll investigate her house for more data, and then—”

“You're _excited_. Aren't you?” John closes his eyes, rubs his face, hard, his own stubble rubbing his palm raw, horrible things rising inside him. Usual criminal technique. Like Sherlock, face streaked with blood, eyes blank and cold, and now, only now that John thinks about it, pupils not blown, not dead, not brain injured. John opens his eyes, points at Sherlock. “You're just really bloody excited that Moriarty's returned, that you can—that's probably why you're...” John gestures to and from himself and Sherlock. “Hell, I bet you really wished I was Moriarty at the pool back then, wished...” 

It's not true, John knows it's not true. John remembers the childlike look of confusion and betrayal that sprung across Sherlock's features when John spoke, when John was wearing that damn parka. John's sweating now just thinking about it, and he knows Sherlock never wanted him to be anything different. But he just can't stop talking, and he kissed Sherlock, and John's tongue is moving faster than his disconnected, slowed, bleary mind. “Wished when I opened my mouth and said his words that those were really my words, that'd make me a bit more interesting for you, wouldn't it? Molly's not nearly that interesting, might as well leave her to rot, shouldn't we? Your best friend Jim'll come pick you up in no time, and then you can go play his game again, and—” John's words are getting short and panting, eyes threatening blurriness.

“You're baiting me, John,” Sherlock says, much more calmly now, and John knows that's not a good sign. “You know none of this is true.” 

Before Sherlock died, now's the time John would be out the door, storming away. But he's been away from Sherlock for too long, so he just takes in a great breath of air.

“I'm not going to talk about it anymore, Sherlock, all right? Let's just—not.” Maybe John's an arsehole sometimes, a lot of times. All he knows is things would be easier if they were the way they were before. He almost says this, then thinks, shit, what he means is long before, when they were flatmates solving crimes—not when Sherlock was dead. 

Everything's easier than that, everything's better.

John walks over to the bed and sits down on the edge of it. He covers his face with his hands and clears his throat quietly, and that doesn't help, that just makes the tickle in his throat worse, scratchier, so he clears his throat again.

“John...” Sherlock begins, and John's never heard him say his name quite like that, soft, low with emotion. 

John knows, he just knows, what's coming, and says, “Nope,” to just stop, to just stop it all and stop them from talking about it, the kissing, the fight. He looks up and he hates himself for the glossy, wide-eyed split second across Sherlock's expression, and hates himself even more for the way Sherlock's face changes so abruptly, gets so blank that John's not sure he ever saw it the other way.

“I'm checking Molly's apartment for clues tomorrow,” Sherlock says coldly, no longer looking at him. “I won't expect you to come with me. You have better things to do.”

Ah, better things to do than help save their friend's life? Low blow, really. Fuck him. John considers saying, _“Fine, you're right, really do,”_ but doesn't give Sherlock that satisfaction, and instead says, “Of course I'm bloody coming with you.”

Sherlock abruptly slams open John's small storage cabinet, takes a heavy blanket out, and then flops turned away from John onto the sofa, covering himself entirely, head to toe. 

John breathes out silently, and then decides to ignore the lump on his couch for a blank draft blog page on his laptop, until he switches to the sushi place's website and phones in an enormous order for both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [ ](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-4-320666569)
> 
> [Johnlock Big Bang 4](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/art/Johnlock-Big-Bang-4-320666569) by [kironomi](http://kironomi.deviantart.com/)  
> 


	14. Chapter 14

“Sherlock's started looking for you,” Jim says, as Molly sits astride one of Jim's perfectly tailored legs, his arms wrapped around her. Not in an embrace, but to text behind her back while she rocks slowly, rubbing against him. They're both clothed. Jim prefers that. 

Molly likes to think this is his own way of holding her, even with his distractions.

“I know,” Molly says.

“Not a peep from him, not a care in the world for you, until it's a puzzle,” Jim says.

“I know,” Molly says.

“And when he finds out how special you are—”

“He'll kill me,” Molly says, then rocks a little faster to catch up with herself, to re-gain the arousal she's lost just thinking about it.

“Mm hmm.”

“You think I should kill him first.”

When Molly watches Jim sneeze, he looks innocent. It's impossible to hate someone when you see how human they look when they sneeze.

“'Atta girl,” he says. 

Molly grabs Jim's wrist hard, pulls his hand to her, slides his index finger into her mouth, and sucks on it, enough to see his typing thumb on his other hand falter just a little on his smartphone. She closes her eyes, pressing her forehead to Moriarty shoulder, and jerks her hips in a circle, thighs starting to tremble a little, mouth still suctioned around his finger. 

Jim throws his phone to the side, and lays a hand flat against her sacrum, pushing her steadily in place, whispering against Molly's head, so low that she can't hear what he's saying. Just gusts of breath, hisses, a whistle, a murmur. Her belly muscles are starting to flood with lactic acid from the tension and movement, but Molly points her toes and jerks her hips a little more. 

The sensation bursts outwards as she comes. Jim immediately draws her close, kissing her forehead. She lets her eyes drift shut. 

When Molly watches Jim eat, he looks innocent. It's impossible to hate someone when you see how human they look when they eat.

She keeps her eyes closed, as Jim pulls her towards him, closer still, letting Molly burrow her head under his chin as he cradles her, swaying side to side. She jumps a little when she feels cold metal trailing the back of her neck, until she realises it's just the key to her flat. She kisses his Adam's apple and sighs out as Moriarty sings her a nursery rhyme, rocking her, just rocking, so gently. 

“Miss Molly had a dolly who was sick, sick, sick,” Jim chants, notes swooping up and down. “So she called for the doctor to come quick, quick, quick. The doctor came with his bag and his hat, and he knocked on the door with a rat-a-tat-tat.”

It's all going to start very soon. It's impossible to hate him.


	15. Chapter 15

John goes with Sherlock to investigate Molly's flat the next morning, when the police finally clear out. Sherlock scoffs at the emailed files Greg smuggles and sends him from his personal email, of scans of evidence collected by the Met. Apparently they haven't caught anything Sherlock deems worthy. 

It's a quick thing to pick Molly's door, but Sherlock notes out loud that it's never—ever, actually—been picked before. Probably deduced with miniscule scratches, but John doesn't ask. 

They give a full search of the place, or Sherlock does, mostly, while John keeps a look-out. In the kitchen, Sherlock frowns at the drawers. “Utensils reordered.”

“Could it have just been Yarders?” John asks.

“Potentially,” Sherlock responds, though he looks dubious. “Mostly sharp objects, very clean. She may have been tortured for information on my whereabouts or travels.” 

John's face blanches, but he stays silent as they sweep through the rest of the flat. It's really small. John can barely imagine Sherlock staying here without going mad, what with Molly seeing to his every need and batting her eyes at him with his every move. If he even noticed, that was. Of course, John doesn't think Sherlock was here long. He's not sure, though. He still hasn't asked, and Sherlock has stopped pushing to tell.

They comb through the flat room by room, finding next to nothing—well, John almost always finds next to nothing, but Sherlock hasn't made his “aha!” face, so he assumes neither of them have found much. Only the bathroom remains. 

The door is closed, and out of habit, John raps on the door with his knuckles, before opening it, Sherlock behind him. 

The first thing John sees is a daisy-print shower curtain, closed most of the way, and, oh god, definitely blood in the bathtub, from the tiny corner he can see. “Shit,” he hisses under his breath, and strides straight for the shower curtain, pulling it back quickly and hard, just as Sherlock shouts, “JOHN, _STOP!_ ”

Too late. John knows his mistake exactly, as he sees the Semtex and wiring arranged and blinking, taped to the shower wall, the fuse string on the explosives pulled with the jerked back shower curtain. Fuck. 

John makes a run for it, pushing Sherlock back and diving out the door, away, away, before his ears feel likely to split with the explosion. A pulse-pounding silence takes over, then a high-pitch ringing in his head. The wind's knocked out of John, and he's panicking to take in a breath, but he realises he still wants to breathe and definitely isn't dead. With swimming, swishing thumps, his hearing gradually returns. 

John's eyelids feel sticky and hot, but pry themselves open. In a cloud of debris, halfway out of the hallway into the living room, John sees Sherlock stand, brush himself off, cough. John doesn't quite feel like moving right now, but does anyway, gingerly stands, too, finds he can. Not bad, could have been much, much worse. John looks back and sees that the bathroom is destroyed, though the rest of the flat is relatively intact, beyond smoke, dust, and the clutter of plaster fragments. So much for gathering any more evidence.

John's hearing is still a little cloudy, but Sherlock's already rambling at him, scrambling closer. “Vibration sensitive,” Sherlock gasps, “Knocking activated it, pulling the string set it off.” Sherlock staggers at John and reaches for him. “Are you okay?”

“Shit, I'm an idiot, sorry,” John says, and he really, really is. “Obviously the biohazard crew would've been by already, of course the blood was new, was just—well, obviously it was a trap. Stupid.” 

But Sherlock's still frantic. “Are you all right?” Before John can answer, Sherlock grabs at his head, the back of his neck, his shirt, repeating, “Are you okay?” 

John scrunches his face and tries to swat Sherlock's hand away as it tugs up one of his sleeves. “Christ, Sherlock, yes, yes, I'm fine, I'm completely fine, except for my pride. And maybe my hope as an investigator.”

“There's blood on your arm, you're not all right,” Sherlock practically shouts in John's face, even though John can hear him. 

John looks and yeah, he's been cut, maybe by propelled bath tile, but it's not any worse than what Molly's cat could have done if this was a very different kind of visit. They never did take her up on offers to plan a get together. Never sounded like much fun, but now John thinks they should have went with it anyway. 

“Hey, no cat,” John says, remembering suddenly.

Sherlock's fingers are all over his scalp, pressing and prodding, and Sherlock asks, “Did you hit your head? You're not all right, you're hurt, you need to—”

“Sherlock. _Sherlock_ ,” John says, more emphatically, but Sherlock's still clutching John's arm, putting pressure on his cut, with Sherlock's other hand checking John's pulse of all things, as if he wasn't standing up and talking, very much alive. “I'm fine, I'm really fine, I just mean Molly's cat's gone. The cut's hardly even bleeding anymore, quit it. _You_ all right?”

“The cat's irrelevant, and yes, fine, I'm fine—you got the brunt of it.” 

Except Sherlock's not really fine. He's practically hyperventilating, eyes frightened. More or less flipping a shit as John's never seen before, and god, Sherlock's really, really human. He's so utterly human. He wears a mask, yeah, but who doesn't? John really is an idiot. This was almost worth it, though, just because John knows, he really knows, that Sherlock actually gives a fuck about—

John tilts his chin up and kisses Sherlock on the lips, just a light brush, ignoring the dust on both their faces. Sherlock kisses him back right away this time—attacks him back, maybe? God, Sherlock really has crap technique, but it doesn't matter, it's fine, it's really fine, Sherlock's hands pressing vice-like on either side of John's jaw, Sherlock's tongue plunging right in this time, licking the roof of John's mouth, sending an itch down John's throat, tongue rolling around John's own, smoother than John expected, just as smooth as anyone else John's ever kissed, and generally less skilled, but more effective at sending heat right to his stomach, right to his groin, especially because Sherlock's making agonised noises. He's more expressive than John would have ever thought likely, and pressing his face harder and harder against John's, sucking so hard on John's lower lip that John thinks his frenulum might actually tear, and it might be completely bloody worth it. Sherlock moves a finger in patterns John can't catch wherever he touches, before pulling back and taking a heaving breath, staring wildly at John.

John breathes and then takes one good look at Sherlock and tries to muster 'impassive' into his voice when he says, “Okay, we need to get back to my flat.” 

A bomb's been set off, there might be more, there's nothing else they can find here, and the way Sherlock's looking... John wants to be stoic here, so one of them will be, so they won't implode, but John knows that his own ears are flushed to the tips, and Sherlock's pale skin is splotched with deep pink in his upper cheeks, even under the grit. Sherlock keeps tracing with his finger against John's skin.

 

When they're back at John's flat, some of their momentum has slowed. It's less comfortable to be near Sherlock than before, less natural, and John's been thinking about it too much again. But the panic in his chest doesn't stop him, this time, from sitting along the side of the bed with Sherlock, who's a pretzel of restless, twined limbs, gaze flickering analytically all over John. 

“So...” John says, and then deflects. Easiest choice. “We can think of something else, to get the data we need.” 

“Yes,” Sherlock says. “I'm considering the options.”

John nods. “Good.” Shit, there's one thing that hasn't lost momentum on the trip back. John adjusts himself uncomfortably in his jeans, hoping to be surreptitious, as Sherlock's gaze catches the bare walls, but a second later, John wonders why he even bothers anymore. Surreptitious isn't something that's feasible around Sherlock. 

"Go—go ahead," Sherlock says, looking back at John, though firmly at his face. "You can—you know." He clears his throat, gaze flickering away again. “You can—wank.” 

John stares at him. _Wank_. It sounds like Sherlock's quoting the word from somewhere, sounds like it's totally foreign to him. Sherlock's face is a little redder, as he scratches the back of his head hard, then pushes two thumbs together, just under his chin, rocking forward, then back again slightly, before holding still. “You can—um,” Sherlock tries again. “I'm happy to observe you. When you. Stimulate your own erogenous zones." His voice is shaky.

"Sherlock," John begins. The word starts as aggravated reluctance, and then Sherlock's eyes, dark and glossy, rise up to meet John's, partially shielded by the downward tilt of his dark curls. Sherlock's lips are parted slightly, and he's breathing through them, like he can't get enough air through his nose.

"Christ," John mutters. "God yes." He's hard as hell now, and Sherlock keeps glancing at John's crotch, then back to his face, like he doesn't know which to watch. It figures John is screwed up enough to find Sherlock's hyper-analytical gaze a turn-on. 

John licks his lips, unbuttons and tugs down his zip, but stops before pulling his erection out of his pants. He feels absolutely bloody absurd about the notion of getting himself off in front of Sherlock, especially when they're both very nearly fully dressed.

John lets out a little sigh of frustration. “Really, Sherlock, are you even—?” Turned on.

"Yes," Sherlock says, quickly, immediately, and John sneaks a glance to see that it's true, Christ, Sherlock's trousers have always been really tight, and now they're even tighter, the outline of Sherlock's cock obvious, really, really obvious. 

Now's the time John should be out the door, saying _no, no, this is not what I do, definitely not, you've made a mistake because I am not gay, thanks but no bloody thanks_. Instead, John feels his own cock twitch. His whole bloody abdomen feels tense and painful, honestly, like he's swollen up with whatever this desire for Sherlock is. 

So instead of running away, John shifts back to lean against the headboard of the bed. Sherlock keeps watching him from the side of the bed, and doesn't come any closer. John's not sure if Sherlock just doesn't want to, or if he doesn't think he should, but either way, John doesn't ask him to, just—not yet. 

At this point John's well on his way to priaprism, thanks, so he shoves his trousers and pants down to his thighs in a quick motion before he can change his mind, his hard cock bobbing out. John takes himself in hand, giving his foreskin a few tight strokes, squeezing by the tip, pursing his eyelids and lips both closed, then rocking his hand a little slower and steadier. 

He grunts quietly, and shifts his hips a little, speeding up his wrist a bit. Sherlock makes a soft throat-clearing noise. It won't take long. John hopes that's okay—he doesn't know the etiquette for a very, very gay masturbation show for your mad genius flatmate, but John's sure Sherlock doesn't either. He opens the bottom three buttons of his shirt. It's already dusty with debris, but he'd rather not make a mess of it, and that might be a possibility. 

John dares to open his eyes. Sherlock's not touching himself except for gripping his own knees. He's leaning forward and staring like John's the most fascinating crime scene he's ever seen, except Sherlock's lips aren't this wet at crime scenes, and his cheeks aren't this red unless it's freezing outside and one of them is about to get pushed in the Thames. 

John slows down his strokes against the building sensation into a few tighter drags down his length, and he sees Sherlock's fingers twitch towards him, even though Sherlock's not asking, not actively reaching. Sherlock's holding back. 

John stops, takes his own hand away, and Sherlock's gaze flips up to his eyes, suddenly worried, like the bloody idiot thinks he's done something wrong. John says, hoarsely, “Come here.” 

Sherlock crawls over to John, kneeling beside him, and finally, _finally_ , reaches and touches him.

Observation always does work wonders for Sherlock's learning curve. John can almost believe, eyes closed, that it's his own hand doing the work, his own specific movements, except for the fact that the fingers wrapped around his cock—gripping the foreskin tight enough to tug, not rub, so he doesn't need any lube—are much longer than his own, smoother, colder. 

Sherlock's unsteady breaths are a stark contrast to his technique's precision. John makes his own series of quiet grunts, muttering, “God, Sherlock,” which makes a low rumbled noise to escape Sherlock's throat. 

John opens his eyes, brings a hand up to Sherlock's hair, rubs his fingers through the curls and tugs gently, pulling Sherlock's mouth down to his own. John kisses him, sucking his top lip, tracing the dip in the middle of his cupid's bow—hey, technical term that, and Sherlock certainly has one, the most prominent one John's ever seen. 

Sherlock's hand speeds up, and adds the slight twist at the base on the upstroke that John didn't even show Sherlock he likes. John furrows his brow hard, mouth stopping its task to concentrate, and Sherlock plants smaller kisses against John's lips before giving a tentative, breath-heavy lick to his ear, keeping up his hand motions. 

John comes, hard, quaking, hips going jagged up into Sherlock's hand.

John lets out a sigh, laughing a little, in disbelief and relief. Sherlock's gaze is transfixed and surprised at the mess John made all over his own right hip and Sherlock's hand. Good surprise, John hopes, but now he's a little nervous again. 

“Sorry,” John says. “A bit soon, isn't it?" He doesn't know what else Sherlock had planned, and honestly, didn't know until this very moment that he's ready to go along with pretty much anything Sherlock wants because, fuck it, it's _Sherlock_.

“I don't know,” says Sherlock, breathing still unsteady, holding and stroking John's heavy, softening cock gently, not enough to overstimulate, like he's reluctant to let go. John shivers. Christ, Sherlock's body looks taut, vibrating like a tightrope.

John gets in another good breath and says, “So—you actually haven't done this before.”

“Yes I have,” Sherlock says quickly, and, pulls his hand away now, squeezing his fist around a corner of the sheet to get off most of the mess John made. Honestly, the way Sherlock says it, it sounds exactly like when he says “I never guess.” So really, it sounds like absolutely bullshit.

“No, you haven't,” John says. 

Sherlock licks his lips and makes a cranky kind of face and then rolls his eyes up away from John's and says, “No, I haven't.”

“Nothing?”

“I'm well-acquainted with mastur—”

“Not what I—”

“Well, now, we—” 

“Nothing physical—at all—besides me?” The man's in his late thirties, for Christ's sake. Even if it is Sherlock, even if it's not full-blown sex and committed relationships, John can hardly believe that he—

Sherlock looks defensive. “I've kissed for a case, once.” 

John's chest feels tighter. Sherlock really hasn't experienced much in the way of human affection, has he? And John's been denying him that for a long time. Who knows how long Sherlock's wanted to—maybe from the beginning? John's not sure exactly when it started being true for him, too, wanting Sherlock, but—

“Why do you care?” Sherlock asks. “Does it really matter so much to you?”

John realises, shit, he's being an arse again, and shakes his head firmly. “Mm, no, no, it doesn't matter, you're fine, Sherlock.”

“Would you mind if I...” Sherlock begins, voice strangely polite, more baritone than usual, too, a slight grimace on his face, and John can see his erection hasn't waned much at all. 

John shakes his head, no he wouldn't mind. Sherlock scrambles to unbutton his trousers and pants, and John forgets for a moment he's allowed to check Sherlock out, to give him a good look, without clothes, without a Buckingham Palace sheet, while Sherlock's just like this, while Sherlock's hard. John's not sure he even knows how to do that, what exactly he's looking for in terms of aesthetics, and even though he does want to look, wants to spend a really bloody long time looking at Sherlock, he misses the moment by looking at Sherlock's face, blurring as it comes in closer to him. 

Sherlock breathes against his mouth before kissing him again, lying over him, and oh, oh Lord, there it is, that's a first. Another man's hard dick against John's stomach, sliding down against his hip, bare and hot, except it's Sherlock's and that seems to make all the difference. 

“Yeah,” John says, low, probably the most pathetic attempt at bedroom talk he's ever tried, because he can't think of what to say to Sherlock but he wants to say something. He feels Sherlock's shoulders shudder in a shiver. Sherlock's arms are a little twitchy, too. John sucks on the side of Sherlock's neck, the places the damn scarf covers most of the time they're out and about, as Sherlock, more enthusiastically now, writhes against John, already trickling sweat, the bottom few curls at the base of his neck damp under John's hand. 

John kisses him, again, again, wondering if Sherlock knows exactly how many times they've kissed now, because he's already lost track. In the midst of Sherlock's thrusting, his bony ribs rub against John's abdomen, and John feels his brow furrowing, staring into Sherlock's face, emotion sneaking up on him. This is the same Sherlock he wants to feed up when they're done solving this thing, get him back to his healthier weight. That same person is the one who's pressing against John right this minute. This is real, right in this moment, and that's a bit overwhelming if he's being honest. He pulls Sherlock closer, squeezes harder, bites the cartilage of Sherlock's ear so John doesn't say something stupid. 

Sherlock makes another noise, still moving, turning his face to John's. “John, I'm going to—is it—” Sherlock says against his lips, voice vibrating in John's chest, too, sounding panicked. 

John nods, says, “Yeah, it's fine, Sherlock, it's good.” 

Sherlock lets out a low moan as he rocks up against John again, again, a few jerks more. Sherlock says, “John, _John_ ,” face open, mouth open, fluttering eyelids, whites of his eyes, and John feels a hot, slow spill over his stomach, probably soaking into his shirt, to be honest, but he doesn't particularly care at the moment. 

Sherlock breathes hard, really hard, his whole body collapsing dead weight over John. John giggles just a bit, because it seems like the natural thing to do. He hasn't got off with someone in a long time and it's hitting him hard. Or maybe it's just that this is Sherlock. That's something he's not up for mulling over yet.

“That was—thank you,” Sherlock says, partially muffled. “That was very—”

“Good, yeah.” John says.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. 

“There may not be any flesh on your bones, but your bones are still heavy,” John says.

“Hmm,” Sherlock says, and continues to lie across John.

“That means you're compressing me to death, so budge over, you,” John says. 

Sherlock, maybe a little self-consciously, tugs up his pants, and flops over to the other side of the bed, licking his lips and staring at their mess. John pulls his own pants up, too. He's covered in rapidly chilling, thick, sticky fluids from both of them, but he decides he doesn't have the motivation to move and clean.

“You're all right?” Sherlock asks, and John looks at his face, surprised.

“The cut from the bomb you mean? We've had much worse.”

“No, I mean—has your sexuality crisis dissipated enough, or will we be involved in yet another argument?”

John tries and fails to glare. “Think I'm done now, thanks.”

“Mm,” is Sherlock's only response, and John sees he's let his eyes drift close.

John doesn't usually apologise to Sherlock. They usually just let everything blow over, but John realises that makes him kind of a tit, and not the good, plush, cushioning kind (the kind Sherlock doesn't have). And he'd really like to keep Sherlock around. So John pulls up the courage, because it's a bit tough sometimes, and says, “Sorry. Really sorry, about all that from before. What I said about Moriarty. And all... everything.”

Sherlock grunts in acknowledgement, eyes still closed, then says, “Unnecessary.”

“Enjoy it, all right? I don't do this a lot.”

“I'm well aware,” Sherlock says, and John grunts and prods him in the arm but they both laugh and something's changed, something's better.

“You can tell me now, Sherlock,” John says, more quietly. “If you want to. About what you got up to while you were gone.” He knows that between the two of them, Sherlock's definitely not the one to have changed, and he's still a massive show-off. A restrained show-off, lately. But John thinks he's ready to hear it all.

Sherlock smiles in his direction. Beams, maybe.

And, so, John listens as Sherlock tells him everything.


	16. Chapter 16

“He doesn't have _anyone_ , you know,” Jim says, rubbing his thumb over Molly's thumb to shift it a little on the gun she's holding, a Sig Sauer P226 pistol. He's taught her all the theory behind handguns, and now there's a target in front of them, but no headphones for her ears yet, because he wants her to get used to the noise. 

Jim wants her to _love_ the noise. Molly's never minded getting her hands dirty. She'll be his rubber gloves in the morgue. She wants to be important.

“He has John,” Molly says.

“Oh, those boys? They're so very happy together now— _not_. Sherlock's putting his pet in all our little traps, and he'll bring him here, too. Happy people don't do what Sherlock does, darling. John's not enough for him, nothing's enough for him. People make all their own choices, y'know. And he'll choose to come here. Not for you of course, didn't care about you, could have choked on a kitty treat and decayed alone in your kitchen for years before he noticed you were gone. But for the fun! The puzzle! This'll be his choice, and he'll choose it. Nobody, he's got nobody, not at all, too sad. Funny little man.”

“I think he... probably does care about John,” Molly says, aiming at the target, squinting a little. Even lonely people care about other people. Even Jim Moriarty cares about her, she thinks, even if he never really says it.

She almost squeezes the trigger, the long steady pull he's instructed for the first of the gun's double actions, until he says, so casually, “Didn't he _call_ you John?” 

Her finger lifts, her arm drops down a little. Molly stops aiming. “What do you mean?”

“Bet he did,” Moriarty says, “Over and over, never remembered your name.”

“No, that's not true,” she lies. Molly needs her name. Jim's always called her her name.

“You sure?”

“Yes,” she says.

“Okie dokie, _John_ ,” Jim says.

“Don't say that!” Suddenly she's shrieking. “Call me my name!”

“John. John. Johnny-boy,” he taunts.

“STOP IT!” She needs her name, she needs to keep her name.

“JOHN,” he roars in her face, and she points the gun at him. 

Then she jerks it to the side and fires it at the target, a perfect hit in the centremost circle. 

Jim says, “Molly, Molly Hooper,” and she breathes out, and then drops her arm to the side, taking the gun with the other hand, and shaking out her shooting wrist and the rattling pain from the recoil, like smacking her funny bone. Molly needs to hold it tighter next time, straighter wrist.

“Molly meow-meow,” Jim continues, laughing. “Molly mouse-no-more, Molly monster, Molly murderess, Molly malevolent. Sorry! Getting you all angry, _rrrawr_. Wondering if you'd shoot _me_ , you know. If I riled you up enough. Funny thing anger is, exposes intentions, all the naughty ones.” He strokes a hand along her forehead, grinning. Molly's already memorised all the lines of his face. “But you _can_ be trusted, can't you?”

“Yes,” she says. Because if there's one thing Molly wants Jim to know, it's that he can always trust her. He can always count on her to do what he needs.

“Good shot, by the way,” Jim says. “You're a natural. Or is it just a little beginner's luck?” 

Molly latches onto his bottom lip, and sucks, then pulls away. She aims, squeezes again, and shoots on target.


	17. Chapter 17

Sherlock's never been good at waiting. Add a case into the mix, plus Mycroft (Mycroft makes nearly everything worse), and, well, John might as well buckle in and prepare for the worst. He does, choosing the more stable desk chair, as Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and literally bounces, occasionally lifting off the bed entirely, and making a growling, impatient sound every so often. 

“You know,” John begins, as he flicks through a paperback, without digesting its content. “I want to find Molly, too, and if you accidentally hit your head on the ceiling—”

“What's taking him so long? Sheer laziness? He can manipulate elections in North Korea, but he can't tell us a single location _in London_?”

“It has only been five minutes, Sherlock. You were the one who wanted to wait and see if Moriarty would—”

“Oh god! I know what I wanted!” Sherlock snaps. “But now I've asked Mycroft, haven't I? I still don't think Molly's in any immediate danger, but incompetence is inexcusable.”

John can't help but smile a little, and goes back to staring at the same page of his book. One of those pulp crime novels Sherlock despises, that John'd like to take a shot at writing some day.

Just as John thinks Sherlock's going to announce his need for nicotine, and John as his doctor is going to have to tell him that uppers really aren't medically recommended in his current state—yes, Sherlock, nicotine is most definitely a stimulant—Sherlock stops bouncing and stares hard at John. John tries to avoid looking up, but he's not making progress on the book anyway, and Sherlock knows that.

“What?” John asks. 

“I'll suck you off,” Sherlock says. 

John lets out a breath between his lips, sets his book down quickly, clenching and unclenching fists, wiggling his fingers. “Ta, yeah, yep, okay,” John says.

And then, Jesus Christ, Sherlock's on his knees and scrambling right towards John's crotch. “One word of agreement would have probably been enough, John,” Sherlock says, a smile teasing the side of his lips as he looks up from the floor at John. “Four might be excessive.” 

John scoots his legs apart a little further, and murmurs, “Sod off.” 

He groans and tips his head back, then forward again to watch, hands gripping his own knees as Sherlock starts undoing his button and zip. Sherlock's thumbs trace the crease line of the roll of John's stomach for only a second, before tugging John's rapidly hardening erection out of his pants, and dropping his mouth down onto the tip, with a determined expression.

Sherlock's mouth is a little dry, but only a little, and unbelievably hot. 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock,” John says, as Sherlock slicks his tongue, pressed flat, along the underside of John's cock, large hands still gripping at the base. Any last minute doubts about having Sherlock Holmes' mouth on his dick are thankfully eased by _having Sherlock Holmes' mouth on his dick_. Nothing a good blowjob can't cure, John's always said. Well, always said to women, and not any of his patients. He's not interested in violating ethics or getting hefty lawsuits. And Sherlock's... different, of course. He's the exception for everything, isn't he? 

Sherlock makes a pleased, “Mmph,” that makes John hopeful Sherlock's interest in cigarettes might actually be a really serious oral fixation. Sherlock suctions off with a wet pop, taking an enthusiastic breath, before removing his hands and pushing his mouth forward again. 

John sees his erection slide down deeper this time, feels it nudging the back of Sherlock's throat. John lets out another little grunt, before he sees Sherlock's eyes water a little. There's a (pleasant to be honest—but) convulsion of a gag in the back of Sherlock's throat, around his cock, so he nudges Sherlock's shoulder away with a hand, saying, “It's okay, Sherlock, you—” then John lets out a “uh, ha” as Sherlock's expression furrows enough to form the bump ridge between his brows. 

Sherlock tilts his head, and slides John's cock in as far as he can go. 

For only about a millisecond. Then Sherlock pulls off entirely, turning his head. 

“You okay?” John asks, as Sherlock heaves in a breath, gags silently (and thankfully unproductively) a few times, in between pressing his lips together hard enough to force all colour out of them. He coughs, gags again, swallows, then takes another breath, before he actually looks like he's considering heading straight back to John's crotch. John stops him.

“Up, up, up,” John instructs, shaking his head. “Come on, up here.” 

Sherlock swallows hard again, sniffing and clearing his throat, but allows himself to be pulled up, grimacing as John tucks his cock away back into his pants. He stands as Sherlock does. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock says, grimacing again.

“It's fine, Sherlock,” John says, cheerily, chuffed that Sherlock wants to please him enough to apologise about it. “You don't like to eat, you hate brushing your teeth, and you never suck cock, so your gag reflex's horrible. How's my deduction?”

“Marvellous.” Sherlock does the accidentally pouty thing he does, and on impulse, John leans his mouth in and sucks on the ridge of Sherlock's ear, dips his tongue in a little further. 

“Bed?” John asks.

Sherlock answers by seizing the back of John's jumper with two large fists and pressing in close, pushing them towards the mattress, where they tumble, smacking each other with legs before they shift, wriggle, get more comfortable, kiss. “I'll do more research,” Sherlock says, voice low. “On that thing we just did.”

“Don't have to,” John says. “But if you're keen on it, I'll be ready for practice most days of the week.”

Sherlock looks at him and his eyes are bright and wet and dark, really really dark, and suddenly John feels completely real. A weird laugh bubbles up in his throat that he swallows to keep his face still. He glances down at his hands, and they're connected to his body, they're _his_ hands. Tingling at the joints. Sherlock's mouth twitches at John, before he helps them push both their trousers and pants down. John groans.

The phone rings. John groans again, in a completely different way. 

Sherlock rolls off him and picks up the phone, switches it to speaker mode, then hisses, “ _Yes?_ ”

“Ah,” Mycroft's voice says, over a tinny crackle of poor reception. “I do hope you and the good doctor are conserving your energy—” John shouldn't be surprised, but he is, so he starts and coughs anyway. “—For the trap that surely awaits you.”

“Yes, you do know all about conserving energy, Mycroft,” Sherlock says, glaring at the phone. “You won't get off your lazy arse for anything, not even if your house were falling down around you.”

“Hmm,” Mycroft says. “In any case, you are quite correct about London. A high rise block of flats, in fact. The address will be forwarded on secure channels.”

John knows Mycroft can't actually see whether or not his pants are on while talking on the phone, but it feels too weird, so he pulls them up anyway. “Anything else?” John asks.

“Anything that won't involve my dear brother stubbornly refusing my offers of reasonable assistance? No, not at all. I wish you'd reconsider, Sherlock.”

“Oh, he'll kill her as soon as your troops come blazing in, and you know it,” Sherlock says.

“There are other, more subtle ways.”

“Come on, just stay out of this,” John says. “Didn't you dick up enough the last time you tried to interfere with Moriarty?” 

There's a long pause, then: “Take care, Dr. Watson,” Mycroft says. The words in anyone else's mouth would mean something nice.

“Yep, we will take care,” John says, imagining Mycroft's repelled lip curl. 

Sherlock smirks at John, hangs up the phone and says, “Especially testy today, isn't he? Mycroft's disturbed. Snogged by Kenny Miles in the sixth form, a few extras since then from Queen-and-country-approved rent boys, pining for Lestrade from a distance, yet here we have his scoundrel of a brother, having an easy go of things with a military hero. Easy in comparison, obviously. Painstakingly tedious, getting you into bed.”

John chortles. “Your brother? Pining?”

“In a word. Easier summation than 'quiet weeping and political machinations'.”

John keeps laughing, stomach starting to hurt in all the best ways. Taking another breath, he says, “Wait, _Greg?_ You're joking.” John knew Mycroft was flaming, but he'd more expect... dunno, fancying the Duke of York?

“I never joke,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, you do.”

“Well, you'll just have to ask Mycroft, won't you? But really, John, his personal life is none of our concern.” 

They buckle into a fit of laughter again, John's stomach aching, before they start re-arranging their clothes properly, catching their breaths. 

No sense in waiting now. They have to think about Molly.

John reaches out and touches Sherlock thigh, and reminds himself to do it more often at Sherlock's surprised expression. “We'll come back to this, yeah?”

“Alive with every piece intact,” Sherlock says. John's not so sure about that. Moriarty's unpredictable enough that even Sherlock has trouble planning against him. But they'll do their best. At least John's got Sherlock back, for now—and if anyone can outwit Moriarty real-time, it won't be the Met, won't be the Secret Service, it'll be Sherlock. 

Sherlock kisses John's mouth, before flipping up his coat collar. “Ready to end Jim Moriarty once and for all?”


	18. Chapter 18

When Molly watches Jim sleep (he lets her now), he looks innocent. 

More than that, he looks young. So young and so vulnerable, in a little ribbed white undershirt and white briefs and the places of his arms where there's almost no muscle, only skin, and the places of his stomach where it's concave, and the places of his stomach where it's not completely flat, and sparse hair on the insides of his thighs, and his dark, dark eyelashes, and his mouth closed so she can't see pointed teeth. 

He knows, now, that she won't kill him in his sleep, no matter how heavily he sleeps. Molly knows that's true, too.

Gloomy light dawns through the windows, a darkness that's a little lighter than just the city lights, and she knows she's been awake too long, especially with the day they have ahead of them. Molly touches the receding hairline of Jim's forehead, knowing he won't wake up. She gives a small kiss to one shoulder, his skin cool against her lips because he's pushed the covers off. Sometimes he thrashes while he dreams.

Later, as Molly arches her back and curls her arms behind her head to zip her dress, Jim, leather shoes scuffing a black mark against the bedroom flooring, pushes over the bookshelf stacked with files, collapsing and cracking the heavy wooden frame with an explosive crash, sending papers flying. 

Molly promptly sits down on the side of the bed, a little farther away. “Why did you do that?” Molly asks, clutching her hands together in her lap.

“You'll clean it up. Won't you?” Moriarty asks, now looking calm, except for his still-heavy breathing, frazzled hair, hooded eyes. He steps in front of the mirror she'd been using, and smoothes his hair back. 

“Yes. But I like keeping the files alphabetised,” she says. “You have too many clients to have them cluttered.”

“Whatever you like, _dear_ ,” Jim says. “ _Our_ clients, you mean, you'd better mean, you are paid, unless you'd like to stop getting fed.”

“Yes,” Molly says, then corrects herself. “I mean, no. I mean yes, our clients, and yes, I'd like to eat. Please.”

And then Jim has a gun. 

But he only points it towards her for an instant, before turning it to the window. She barely has time to worry, so it's not so bad. 

“No fair,” he says, “That Sherlock got to have all the fun flying. What would you do, Molly, if I shot out this glass and took a nice plunge? When you found me, would you put _my_ pieces in order, too? Set them in little buckets?” She opens her mouth to reply, because if she takes too long she thinks he might try to shoot one of the two of them, but he continues, “Tempting, isn't it? Knowing everyone dies, knowing it's _sooooo_ easy to make them, and still. Trudging along.” Jim mimes hunched, slowed walking, pushing with his hands, “Sisyphus with his whatchamacallit!”

“Um. Boulder,” Molly says. 

“I KNOW WHAT IT'S CALLED,” Jim yells, then taps the tip of the gun against the glass, against his head, against the glass, speed of the clinking rapidly increasing.

“Are you okay?” Molly says, quickly, leaning forward, before he can interrupt. She's seen him in a lot of moods, but she's never seen him like this before. “You're not okay, are you? Can I help you? How can I help you?” 

He turns and hits her across the face with the tip of the gun, so it scrapes and cuts open her face. 

She slaps a hand to her face to stopper the blood, panting with her mouth open, and Jim says, “We need something believable for tonight.” He sets the gun on the windowsill. 

“How do _you_ expect to help _me_?” Jim asks her. “This problem? Nobody knows the answer, not even _dear Sherlock_. Don't bother asking him, won't work, pinky promise. He doesn't know the answer, even in that luscious mind of his.”

Moriarty leans in and kisses the fingers that are against her cheek, then nips Molly's nose gently with his teeth. 

_IloveyouIloveyouIloveyou_ , she thinks. 

“If you change your mind about my help...” she says. When he pulls back, he looks sad.

In his sleep, Jim heaves a glottal sigh in his throat, and moisture runs from one of his eyes, falls down inside his ear. 

Jim's suddenly like a little boy, not at all like the arrogant, half-dangerous genius she used to know.

It's impossible to hate someone when you see how human they look when they sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

“Sure this is it?” John asks, more for something to say than because he really doubts Mycroft's information or Sherlock's deductions. They stand shoulder-to-shoulder in a slow-lowering metal lift. The massive glass lobby had been eerily empty. 

Sherlock is quiet, watching the floor numbers blink.

“Glad it's not the rooftop,” John says, trying again, gallows humour, planting his feet more firmly on the ground, waiting. 

This gets a sideways look out of Sherlock, who answers, “True.”

They reach the basement. The doors slide open with a ding, as John draws his pre-loaded Sig. An enormous indoor garden sprawls before them. What little of the vaulted ceilings he can see—above twisting trellises of vines, trees, flowers—covered in blue lightbulbs and irrigation equipment.

Sherlock grunts and shoves his coat sleeve over his mouth, and a moment later John hisses a breath in through his teeth so he can't smell as much through his nose. He coughs a little anyway. Shit, if they're too late... “That smell,” John whispers. “Jesus. If Moriarty's—”

Sherlock touches John's knuckles with a few fingers of the hand not held to his face. “Not death. Plants.” Sherlock pulls his arm away from his face and shakes himself a little. They walk a little deeper into the garden, and Sherlock says quietly, “Smilax, titan arnum, rafflesia, stapelia. Carrion flowers. They release simple amines. Occasionally dimethyl oligosulphides.”

“Right, because that explains everything,” John mutters, keeping his gun raised. “So why the hell—”

“It's his makeshift forest,” Sherlock says. “There is a forest in the fairy tale, is there not? Not to mention, he's trying to make things difficult for me. Overwhelming scents.”

John's irritated now. He really despises Moriarty, really hates him with everything he's got. For what he's done to Molly, for what he did to Sherlock. He really wants to get the chance to kill him, really finish him off this time.

They trace a long, hole-filled rubber mat, some kind of drainage pathway, through the garden, as John swallows hard and breathes carefully in the midst of stench. Some of the plants are huge, taller than John, purple, red, flesh-coloured to match their scents, others tiny and green with red flowers on vines, wrapped taut around withering trees.

“Most of these are parasitic,” Sherlock narrates again. John hates gardening, even window boxes, even vegetables. This definitely doesn't change his mind. 

Still no movement anywhere, no Moriarty showing off.

Until they round a bend in the path, and there she is. Sherlock freezes, too.

Molly lies on the ground in a knee-length red dress, her hair fanned out and saturated with clotting blood, so that fine strands are held together in stiff, taut chunks. Face down. She's not moving. This time, instead of rushing in, John ignores his pulsing adrenaline, and looks to Sherlock for cues.

“Molly. Real blood,” Sherlock says, “Alive. Ground not booby-trapped.”

John sprints to her, ducks down, and gingerly rolls her into recovery position. She has a horrible gash across her face, and she's still unconscious. Pulse sluggish but livable. Shouldn't move her in case she has spinal damage, but this isn't exactly a usual situation. John says, “We need to get her out of here.” 

Sherlock speaks over him. “Too easy.” 

John hears loud clapping from someone's two hands. He can guess whose. 

Then they're targets all over again.

John, entire head and shoulders tense as he crouches, takes in a breath through his mouth and lets it out again, looking up at the approaching form of James Moriarty with as much hatred as he can possibly muster, the quivering red laser sights scattered over John's body.

“You've been a busy boy, Sherlock,” Moriarty says. His sing-song makes John want to retch. “Cutting my ties all around the world. Not very nice of you, you know. A man's gotta eat!”

“I'd been wondering why it was particularly difficult to bury your legacy, Moriarty,” Sherlock retorts smoothly. John's glad he still can. He's too angry, too sick, he can't speak. “I see you've been grasping on for dear life. I wonder why you insist on prolonging the matter, I'll kill you eventually.”

“Shucks, about to say the same to you! Big faker. Pity your pet didn't off himself while you were gone, hmm? Almost! Wouldn't that have been fun to come back to? So Shakespearean! So much fun! Would have made my job easier.”

John, still frozen, gets a kick in the hand from Moriarty, which sends his gun spiralling away and his wrist aching. “Not that it's difficult now, of course,” Moriarty says. “Go stand by loverboy, Johnny, be a good soldier.” When John doesn't move from Molly's side, Moriarty screams, “STAND, OVER THERE.” 

John gets up and walks back to Sherlock's side, farther from the gun, shit, farther away.

Moriarty, no longer angry, laughs a little. “One of us should wake our dear Ms. Hooper! How about with a kiss? She'd _looooove_ if it were you, Sherlock, but I do know you don't swing that way. Fancies you, though. Almost everyone does.”

“Naturally,” Sherlock says casually, but his steely expression is pale.

“Don't touch her,” John finds himself compelled to say. The thought of Moriarty's mouth on Molly makes him wonder if he can find a way to break Moriarty's neck with his bare hands before the snipers kill him. Come on, Sherlock, plan something out. They should be able to get out of this together. Nobody's in a bomb jacket, for one. Maybe something with the plants. John needs to think, too. _Think_.

“Oh, is that the wrong fairytale?” Moriarty looks surprised. “Hmm, must do some more reading. Oh well! Kiss of a needle will do! Did for Sherlock, didn't it?” 

John frowns harder and licks his lips, as Moriarty squats and presses a needle into Molly's outer thigh. Adrenaline.

Molly's eyes fly open, and she lets in a sudden high-pitched, wheezing gasp, coughing, from the stench or the sudden awakening John's not sure. She tries to sit up. 

“You okay?” John says to her, and she nods. 

Maybe because she's in such a state, the snipers haven't targeted her yet. Molly probably doesn't even know how to shoot a gun, she's clumsy, too, it might not work, but if she can grab it, it's right there. God, if she can just end this, even if the snipers get the rest of them. Or toss John the gun, and he'll do it himself before the snipers hit, take his chances. Those bastards probably had the same military training John did, he'd risk it, he's quick. He stares hard at Molly, trying to get her to understand, even though he can't say anything. Sherlock apparently agrees with the plan, too, because he starts providing the distraction.

“Nice touch, putting her in a red dress,” Sherlock says. “I see you've become completely unimaginative in our time apart. Keeping the snipers, the same as before. All the fairy tales.”

“If it ain't broke, don't fix it!” Moriarty says in a strange, mocking accent, before he switches back to his usual. “She owned that dress already, not that you'd have ever known.” He gives them a crooked smile. 

Good girl, Molly, yes, she's going for the gun. She's faking trouble standing, reaching for it slowly enough that she hasn't drawn Moriarty's eye. No targets on her. John prays she can get this right, get a decent shot in. There's no safety on the model, she won't have to fuss with that.

“She's full of surprises,” Moriarty says, still talking to Sherlock. Come on, Molly, give that bastard a real surprise, come on.

Molly stands now, easily, readily, holding the gun in steady hands. Moriarty finally sees her with it, and—what the hell? What the bloody hell is—

Moriarty smiles more broadly. 

Molly walks to Moriarty's side, tucking her blood-crusted hair behind her ears with a hand. 

Molly points the gun at Sherlock's head.

 

When Jim kisses her, he leans in and tilts his head, so Molly doesn't have to take her eyes off the target. His nose smudges the Vick's vapour rub under her own nose, just a little. The menthol chill travels in her sinuses, mostly cancelling out the rotting blossoms around them, though Molly's used to the stench of death. The flowers make it even sweeter. More like burned flesh than anything, really, the sweetest-smelling of all death. The way she died, though that was pretend. 

Moriarty's kiss is less tender than it sometimes is; this one is for show. Molly can tell the difference now.

“This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock?” Moriarty says, pulling away from her but keeping a hand firmly against her spine. That possessive pressure was out of character for the Jim she knew long ago in the Bart's lab, but knowing him now means it makes perfect sense. “No earpiece this time, by the way. She's _autonomous!_ ”

“Stockholm Syndrome, oh, _boring_ ,” Sherlock says, still not even looking at her, still looking only at the gun, only at Jim. Sherlock still doesn't see her, not really. “Simple to kidnap anyone and let the isolation take effect. Amateur of you.”

John, standing by Sherlock's side, both covered by dancing lights, has dropped a jaw open, just slightly. He looks confused. And defensive, of Sherlock, mostly.

“Boring? Simple? Well, _yes_ , I do think so,” Jim says, thoughtfully, slowly. “Not so easy to _define_ , though, is it. From day one, Molly wanted me safe, you see. She even asked _me_ not to leave when I... paid her a little visit.”

It seems so long ago. Molly remembers it only blurrily, like it was a different lifetime, like lying in that blood-strewn bathtub was a photograph she once saw at a glance, flipping through a magazine. 

Now Sherlock looks at her, as if he's trying to decide if what Jim is saying is true. When he reaches his conclusions, his gaze turns away again.

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock says. “Her kindness was a weakness. One you've exploited into violence.”

“What's—going on?” John asks, very quietly, face turned down to the ground, shoulders hunched.

Sherlock still talks about her to Jim and John like Molly's not there. She hates him for it. “She's been Moriarty's hit man. The first poorly made corpse. Too weak to do better. The rest, progressively more skilled.”

“Yep!” Moriarty says. “What a catch, Sherlock! She'll do _anything_. Glad you gave her up.”

“You're serious?” John asks.

“Yes,” Molly responds, finally speaking up. “I did everything.” She tips her head up a little, proud. “I even set the traps.”

“Becoming irreplaceable, she is,” Jim says, words rolling on his smiling tongue, as John looks at her like he hates her now, a compressed fury in the stiff muscles of his face.

“Someone so ordinary, Moriarty?” Sherlock asks, disdainful now, sneering. Still not speaking to her. “Pathetic.”

“Oh, oh, you're one to talk!” Moriarty gives a mock-gagging glance towards John, then shakes his head slowly, nose scrunched. “There's nothing ordinary about her level of loyalty, nothing ordinary about your blood all over her hands.” A pause, then, Moriarty spins and gestures to all the plants. “We'll return you to nature! Let you rot into human body states even you can't escape from. Shitting. _Decaying_. No more boredom, Sherlock! No more anything! We'll let your precious Johnny-boy go with you, too. You'll like that, won't you? Together forever, just like a storybook.”

Sherlock eyes the gun in her hands, eyes the red dots along his and John's bodies. Molly knows he's frantic, even if he seems calm. “And what will you do, _Jim_ , once I'm dead and gone?” Sherlock asks. 

Molly knows he's stalling, trying to come up with a plan. Maybe hoping she'll miss and then he'll have a chance, in the commotion, to get John out and away from snipers. Maybe thinking about diving into the flowers, shielding the two of them, crouching and running. Maybe hoping she'll hit, and in the commotion John can escape. Sherlock does selfless things, when those things are for John.

“Don't want to plan ahead, it'll ruin the fun,” Jim muses. “Sure I'll think of something. I always do!”

“Molly, you considered yourself my friend—” Sherlock begins, still looking at Jim. 

Molly says, “ _No_ , stop it.” She extends her arm a little stronger, gun in hand, targeting him more carefully, and Sherlock stops talking.

She doesn't want to hear it. Sherlock's not her concern anymore.

“Are you ready, darling?” Jim asks.

Molly looks at Jim now, really looks at him. The black dots in pores where he's shaved close this morning, the shine of oil on one side of his forehead. She says, “Yes, I'm ready.”

Jim Moriarty is a god right now, Molly thinks. Fractioning himself into another persona. Grinning with teeth flashing, shoulders shrugging with a coy, childlike smile that's nothing like what he must have really been like, as a child. Suit tight and tidy, his eyes dead, expelling boredom, not hate. Too empty for even hate. Destructive, untouchable, immortal.

But Jim eats. He sleeps. He sneezes. 

He dies. 

Nobody's been able to figure out that last part, not even Jim himself, no matter how much he's wanted to, but Molly knows it's true. It has to be.

Jim doesn't expect Molly to figure that part out, either, because he knows she cares. That's true, too. And that's why she's the only one who can. Molly knows this now. Nobody else cares about Jim. But she does. 

Sherlock's wrong again—kindness has never made her weak.

Before Jim's eyes even widen, without any dramatics, Molly points, shoots, and hits. 

Jim Moriarty, the real Jim Moriarty, the human Jim Moriarty, with a real bullet in his skull, drops to the ground heavily, the same moment the blood splatter hits Molly, the same moment her wrist throbs from the shot, the same moment her eyes spill, wetness slipping down an itching path to her chin.

Then she sees Sherlock's expression clear, open, as he thinks he understands. He thinks Molly's still in love with him. He thinks she did this for him. He thinks she gave him just one more thing he needed.

Molly's stomach churns, her fingers twitch, thinking of their own accord of his throat. 

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, starts to say, “Thank you, M—”

But Molly shouts at him, the first time she's ever really shouted at Sherlock Holmes, screaming with all her air and might, her mouth twisting, contorting: " _SHUT UP!_ Shut up! I didn't do this for you!”

John still looks at the floor, almost unmoving, just breathing. 

Sherlock stops speaking, looks at her, stunned. 

She stares back, panting. They're still careful, still not moving. Don't they know yet that the Jim they knew was all illusion, nothing real? Molly sees the moment Sherlock starts to understand it, too, the quivering red lights, although John is a little slower on all these things. He's probably a good doctor, though. Everyone has their own strengths and weaknesses.

“They didn't shoot you, when you shot him,” Sherlock says. 

“Who are 'they'?” Molly asks, disdainful, and Sherlock breathes out. 

“High-performance motion tracking laser sights, no rifle. No snipers.” He glimpses around, squints, sees a stray red light, flickering well above their heads. “Several mirrors. But you and Moriarty were just out of range to maintain the illusion.”

Molly nods, silent now.

“Jesus,” John says, and squats down near the ground, hands resting on the top of his head, putting his head between his knees. 

Sherlock strides towards Molly quickly, grabs the gun from her hands, and Molly lets him. Even if it means he's going to shoot her now. 

He doesn't. Sherlock inspects Jim's body with bare hands, thumbs the gunshot wound, pinches the shrapnel-like particles of bone splayed across the ground, checks pulse, breathing, checks Jim's blown pupils, checks Jim's fingernails and fingerprints. He strips Jim's shoes and socks, while Molly suppresses a command to stop getting blood on Jim's best shoes. Sherlock even inspects the veins on the tops of Moriarty's feet. John, still crouched, but head back up, stares at Molly. He's shaking now, quivering with rage. He wants to kill her. Molly knows.

“It's him,” Sherlock stands. “And he's dead.” Sherlock doesn't close Jim's eyelids, just keeps him staring. 

“Love is a dangerous disadvantage, Moriarty,” Sherlock says, after a long time.


	20. Chapter 20

Molly's funeral is a small, closed-casket gathering in the lobby of a church, with thin carpeting, metal folding chairs, and several faux-porcelain buckets of flowers. Not carrion flowers, thank god. The room's only half-full, largely with people from Bart's, most of whom admit they didn't know Molly well, but did know her helpful smile. 

After, John stiffly shakes the hand of a crying Meena—who he vaguely remembers mention of in Molly's blog, who, thank god, doesn't recognize him despite _his_. She starts telling him Molly wouldn't have got kidnapped if it weren't for that tosser detective flinging himself around giving her mixed signals. John makes a quick exit for the food table, tiny sandwich triangles lining a small back table. He and Sherlock still haven't got a real meal in edgewise. 

“How's Sherlock holding up?” Greg asks from behind him. John turns, adjusting his black tie, chewing. “It's not his fault he didn't make it in time to save her. You're telling him that until his ears bleed, yeah? He has to hear it.”

John takes in a breath through his nose, after swallowing his bite. “Well, you know.” He hopes Greg'll just drop it.

“What?”

Damn. “He's, uh... yeah, look, I'm telling him. But he's been mostly calm about it.”

Lestrade breathes out heavily, with pursed lips and a slight whistle. “Well, that's not good, is it?” Not the reaction John was looking for. “I mean, this is Sherlock we're talking about.”

“Uh, well...”

“Think he's touching the hard stuff again?”

John shakes his head. “No. No, no, what I mean's... He's just, er, just a little quiet about—”

“How many times do I have to tell you, Mycroft? Absolutely not!” Sherlock's voice booms over the soft murmuring of the funeral crowd, and John presses a hand to his face as Sherlock comes stomping back into the lobby, followed by Mycroft. Pretty effective stomping, given there's carpeting.

“You insist on maintaining,” Mycroft says, firm, angry, and shockingly, almost as loud, “an absolutely flippant attitude about some of our country's greatest traditions—”

“And I'd be delighted to start a new tradition of beating in the head of anyone who tries!” Sherlock waves and flicks his hands at Mycroft.

“ _Sherlock Holmes_ ,” Mycroft says.

“No, no, no, _no!_ ” Sherlock says, and storms over to John, pulling John's wrist up with his fingers and dipping his head down to take a bite from the sandwich in John's hand, his wet bottom lip grazing one of John's fingers along the way. He's not exactly subtle, is he? John finds he doesn't care as much as he should. It's not as though Sherlock didn't act like this before, too. 

Sherlock glares at Mycroft, chewing emphatically. His gaze flickers temporarily to Greg, and he nods. “Lestrade.” Then, to John, with his mouth still half-full, Sherlock says, “My dearest brother is trying to coerce me— _again_ —into accepting a knighthood.”

Mycroft seems to finally notice the throng of funeral-goers staring at him and Sherlock, because he flushes and raises a hand, saying, “My apologies.” Mycroft contorts his lip into a curled grimace at Sherlock. John tries to pretend he's choking, instead of laughing. Funeral, they're at their good friend's funeral.

“Mr Holmes,” Greg says in greeting, hands in his black suit pockets, head nodding once.

“Mycroft, please, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft says. His usually completely put-on politeness melts into a softer, more sincere tone. Christ, Sherlock wasn't joking, then, was he? John stares at Mycroft, eyebrows raised, but Mycroft's attention is definitely elsewhere.

“Greg's fine,” Lestrade insists.

Mycroft nods courteously. “Gregory.”

“Uh, well, actually, I—”

“'Gregory' will do, won't it?”

“That's—sure, yeah.” Greg shrugs.

“Good.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes massively, and turns to John. “We've paid our respects. Shall we go?”

Thank god. “Yep,” John says.

 

“You're horrid at lying John, you always have been,” Sherlock says, slumped back on a chair in John's soon-to-be abandoned flat, toeing one of the mostly packed cardboard boxes. There are only a few. John doesn't really have much in the way of possessions. 221B was stuffed to the rafters, and it was mostly Sherlock's fault, not that John really minded. “We're lucky most of Molly's family members are already dead.”

“Lucky?” John raises his eyebrows.

“Otherwise the secret would have been out in twenty minutes. Do you see, now, that I had a reasonable reason to keep you in the dark about my death?”

John shakes his head, rolling the last of his clothes into one of the boxes. Sometimes Sherlock's so bloody offensive that John can't even bring himself to be angry. “If you maybe, _maybe_ had a point, maybe, not saying you did, I still wouldn't say a word to give you _any_ satisfaction about this.”

“No, wouldn't dream of it,” Sherlock says.

“You're still a huge dick for doing it,” John adds.

“Of course,” Sherlock says, and there's a smile flickering somewhere in his expression. Sherlock stands and enters John's personal space in a few long strides. John looks up at him, pursing his lips, and holds his ground. It's not so bad, Sherlock hovering.

Even John doesn't know exactly where Molly is now, only that she's in Sherlock's “immensely more secure” version of witness protection. John was ready to call the police and have her carted off to prison for the murders, but Sherlock insisted they owed her this much. 

_She's killed people_ , John said, when they argued about it. _So have you_ , Sherlock said, which sent John into flashing memories before it sent John into silence. 

Whether Sherlock sees some of John in Molly, or what, John doesn't know, but he doesn't ask Sherlock any more questions about her.

He does have a different question, though. “Hold up,” John says, as Sherlock starts to lean in for a kiss. “How come you never noticed that Moriarty faked his death on the rooftop?”

“Ah, that.” Sherlock straightens up again. “An effective trick,” he concedes. “Though a bit crude. The unique combination of threatening the three of you, the gunshot, rather loud despite the open space... throw in some vertigo from the rooftop. Too much stimulation. Minor inconvenience, thanks to autism. Still, I wouldn't call _that_ all bad. It contributes significantly to my enjoyment of a heavy blanket, a well-constructed periodic table of elements, the clarity of the perfect deduction. It usually offers intense focus, and... what?”

John stares at Sherlock. “God, I love you,” he mutters, on an impulse.

Sherlock tilts his head. His eyes are unreadable to John. “Do you realise you said that out loud?”

He does now. “Sorry, I can stop,” John says, shifting away a little, back towards the boxes. “I'll just get on that.”

“No, no. It's fine.” Sherlock still looks astounded. John doesn't know exactly what that means.

“You know, for us plebes it's usually nice to hear it back, but I imagine love is a dangerous disadvantage, then?” John remembers Sherlock's look of disdain as he stared at Moriarty's corpse.

“Now you're angry at me.”

John bobs his head down. “A little, yeah.” Maybe he should just finish packing and forget the whole thing.

“Because of what I said to Moriarty?”

He hesitates, then nods, and looks back up at Sherlock. “Yes.”

“It is a dangerous disadvantage. I think that's been proven time and time again—”

John tucks his chin in against his throat, breathes in through his nose, straightens his head and breathes out. He's been an idiot to think this would be easy. It's not like John was aiming for this to begin with. He nods. “Right then. I'll just—”

“ _And_ it's a handicap I'm willing to take,” Sherlock finishes. “Have been... taking.” Sherlock grimaces a little, eyes wandering everywhere except John's face.

John rubs the back of his neck, and really looks at the man in front of him. John's not sure, but— “Is that your weird way of saying—”

“I love you, yes.” Sherlock grips John's upper arms so suddenly that he jumps a little, then relaxes into the touch. Sherlock continues, “John, you're... fantastic. You're like fresh cadavers newly donated to science with full familial consent. You're like the cool side of a pillow when I'm uncomfortable thanks to a _slightly_ elevated temperature. You're like—”

Sherlock's apparently trying to think up all the things in the world that possibly remind him of John, and John needs to make him stop before this all gets too embarrassing—he's already chuffed enough as is. 

“Uh, okay, good, that's fine. That actually—got poetic later on there,” John says. “The beginning was a bit weird, though.”

 

They move back into 221B after a tearful reunion with Mrs Hudson (tearful for her, she explained, because she was chopping onions at the time; tearful for Sherlock, he explained, because she patted or possibly slapped him on the face a few times too many, a bit too hard, and she was wearing rings as well). Mrs H tells Sherlock she knew all along he'd pull a ridiculous stunt like this, and shame on him for leaving her with all of his horrible junk in her fridge in the mean time. 

Then Sherlock sidles up to John and touches his hips while he's trying to lift boxes, thank you very much, and Mrs H lets out the loudest shriek John's ever heard, which is saying something, since he does fight in wars, do emergency medicine, and solve crimes. It nearly makes him halve the number of his already small collection of belongings, and possibly break his toes, too. Of course Sherlock just has to grope him while he's trying to balance boxes of fragile stuff.

“Oh, boys,” Mrs H says, and hugs and kisses them both. “ _Finally_. I'm so pleased for you both! If you're going to end up getting each other killed, you might as well get a few shags in! I need to scurry off and tell Mrs Turner, she owes me a cuppa and thirty quid for this one.”

Suddenly, at least two people, soon to be three, know about him and Sherlock, and John still can't bring himself to panic. Sherlock's even smiling. _Sherlock_ is smiling. A real smile, not one of his creepy fake ones. His name's cleared, and in the morning they'll start travelling to cut down the rest of Moriarty's network. Together this time.

Later, John sits cross-legged, still clothed, on Sherlock's bed, as Sherlock lies flat on his stomach, one of John's hands resting on his lower back over his still too-loose shirt. 

As he rifles through the contents of a nearly unpacked box, John realises he's apparently an enormous buzz kill. John only has condoms that, prominently even, state _ribbed for her pleasure_. 

Battered, half-empty box in hand, he says, “Um.”

Sherlock turns to look, then settles back down again. “Seriously, John, I do know you've had sex with women. It's one of the only things you've talked about since we first met.”

“Right,” John says. God, he's an arsehole.

“The ribbing involves thin latex bumps, yes? Not harmful, might actually be... not bad.” Sherlock shifts slightly under his hand.

“Right,” John says. Now he thinks about it, though, he doesn't feel horrible at all, really.

“Not to mention, it's been precisely two hours, soon to be two hours and one minute, since I used that anal cleansing kit, which is precisely the amount of time one is supposed to wait to allow the mucosal tissue to return to a safe state, no longer prone to receiving minor tears. I'd really prefer if you were inside me as soon as convenient.”

“That was really good bedroom talk, that right there,” John says, clearing his throat and working off his own belt, which he drops to the floor with a rattle. “Except maybe next time skip right to that end part and avoid everything about douching.”

“You're the one who found the kit in the first place,” Sherlock retorts, rolling over to look at John, which drags John's hand from Sherlock's back to his upper thigh. 

John squeezes, then he shakes his head. “Cheers, yeah, and it's called a _personal_ care kit because it's supposed to be very, very private.”

“Oh, don't be a prude. You're my doctor!”

“Then tell me all about when I'm giving you a checkup and not trying to shag you.” John bends and licks up the side of Sherlock's neck, making him pant, and thankfully shutting him up.

They've yet to get completely undressed in any of their other encounters, really, so it's a bit like unwrapping a Christmas present this time. John's always enjoyed this part of sex, and if this is with a man, well, it's Sherlock, and he's getting over it. 

Given their conversation about rectal cleanliness, John's a little appalled that Sherlock seems embarrassed once the clothes come off, when he's all angles and veins and muscle and hipbones, and curled, dark pubic hair, and jutting cock. John can admit, without much practice observing men, but with a hell of a lot of practice observing this mad detective, that Sherlock's gorgeous. 

“What?” John asks, hands on his bare hips, hovering over the once lounging, now squirming Sherlock.

“Nothing,” Sherlock says.

“No, really, what?”

Sherlock sighs and rolls his eyes. “I'm strange-looking, John. Obviously you still want to sleep with me, but I am strange. I look like a cat alien horse thing who's been dunked in bleaching cream and stretched out on a wringer.”

John evaluates the statement. “Yeah, you definitely do,” he says, nodding, before ducking his head in to kiss Sherlock again. “Shut up. I'm this plumpy, scarred sack of potatoes, and you're a bloody sculpture.”

Sherlock snorts then scoffs, until John wriggles and rubs them together, full body, hot skin to hot skin. He rocks against Sherlock, slow, muttering, “You're brilliant, Sherlock. Just amazing.” 

A strangled noise rips itself from Sherlock's throat.

Soon enough, Sherlock's lying on his front again, long, pale back arched and rather sizeable arse high in the air. John's one finger deep. Sherlock's muscles are practically strangling off his finger's circulation, and John's trying very hard not to think about how bloody fantastic this will feel around his cock if they ever get around to doing it properly. 

Sherlock actually has the indecency to say, “Another.” 

“You can't will it, Sherlock, these muscles are out of your control, sorry to say.” He knows Sherlock'll hate that, won't he, not having total mind over matter. Some might help, though. “Try thinking about something relaxing.” 

Index finger still inside, John rubs gently around Sherlock's puckered skin with the knuckle of his middle finger, slippery with lubricant, but doesn't even try to get another finger in just yet. He strokes down the length of Sherlock's spine with his other hand.

“220 male and 109 female murder victims were registered in England and Wales in 2011,” Sherlock begins.

“Sherlock, that...” John begins, then changes his mind. “That works. Whatever works.” Now's not the time to tell Sherlock it might be a bit not good to talk about murder in the bedroom, because he is Sherlock Holmes, after all. His life revolves around the joys of solving murders. _Their_ lives revolve around it. And at this point, whatever works for Sherlock is working for John. John's unflagging erection prodding against the back of Sherlock's thigh is proof enough of that. 

“488 and 211 unsolved cases of death from injury or poisoning were registered, where the event was, at the time of the recording, awaiting a determination of intent...”

Sherlock actually does relax. John supposes he shouldn't be surprised that it works. He wiggles in a second slippery finger, glad he always keeps his nails cut as short as they can go. John rotates his hand so his palm faces down, and crooks his fingers, gently rubbing the ridge of Sherlock's prostate. Sherlock lets out a breath, and gives a slight convulsing clench around him, before relaxing even more.

“Any good?” John asks, a little unsteadily. Jesus Christ, no risk that John's not very, very interested in sex with Sherlock.

“Very,” Sherlock says, and his voice is deeper, lower, than his statistical recitations from before.

Sherlock washed up before but didn't shampoo his hair, so when Sherlock arches his head back towards John, reaching for a kiss, his curls still smells like all the experiments he worked on earlier—vinegar, garlic, formaldehyde that makes John think of the crunch of dissections in his old school days. 

Eventually, John will have to tell everyone. Sherlock won't be much for hiding it. Harry'll take the piss, definitely. John'll probably have to put up with jokes about their genetics, their childhoods, the end of the Watson line. But that'll all be okay. She'll be pleased, probably. It'll be worse from his old rugby mates and army mates, if John decides he even wants to see those arseholes again. Bill won't be great, probably won't get it, but it should blow over eventually. Mike'll want John to buy him a pint for introducing them. Ella said she'll re-open his file again, no hard feelings, and he gets the feeling she'll be relieved to hear about it. Greg probably knows already, honestly, won't care either way, and Mrs Hudson's apparently going to bake them a cake. 

It's okay. It'll be a lot of questions John won't want to answer, a lot of questions he doesn't even know the answers to himself, but Sherlock's great at getting people to shut up if they need to. They'll be all right. 

John slips his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, kisses him deeper, wriggles his fingers a little more.

“ _John_ ,” Sherlock says, pulling his mouth away, squirming, panting, rocking himself back so John's fingers slide deeper.

“You're here, you're good,” John mutters, voice hoarse, kissing Sherlock's shoulder blade. “Take my hand.” 

John weaves one hand atop one of Sherlock's, pressed to the mattress. Sherlock's hand is dry and warm.


	21. Chapter 21

This is what happens to her. 

She's not a doctor. She has a steady job as a medical transcriptionist. She doesn't have a flat, because in America, she rents an apartment. She has a cat. She watches TV with her cat. 

What else is she supposed to do? Her hair is cut and coloured. She doesn't know anyone. And she can't let anyone get to know her, because she still blushes when she keeps secrets.

She tries to be positive. She's not dead. She's not in prison. She could be either. She's safe. Toby's safe.

Toby keeps his name, which is good, she's grateful. Sometimes when he's not feeling stubborn, he perks up his ears and responds to her calls, and she'd hate to take that away from him. 

She couldn't keep her name, of course, so she's lost her name after all.

Sherlock could find her, visit her, even just say hello, and wouldn't give away her secret. He's the one who gave her the secret, after all. But he hasn't talked to her, not a word. She doesn't think he will. She saw the way John and Sherlock looked at each other, talked to each other, stood inside each other's boundaries. They're together now, preoccupied, and, well... that's all right. She's not angry. She can understand the selfishness of new love, even if she was the one to save herself and them, all at once. She has to be cheerful, stay positive. 

She scratches Toby on the top of his head. One of his eyes starts to squint closed, but the beeping from her mobile phone sends him leaping down to the ground and away.

 _Molly, heard you're the person to see to get things done_ , the text, an unknown number, reads.

Molly stares at the phone with trembling hands for a long time. 

She types back: _No. I don't do that anymore._

The response comes right away. _Fair enough. You're the boss._

Molly rests her thumb against the button to delete the text, but doesn't press it. 

She will. She just hasn't yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone enjoyed reading. Comments, questions, and/or constructive critiques are deeply appreciated. I'd love to hear people's thoughts on the story!
> 
> I try my best to provide comprehensive trigger warnings for my fics. If you notice that I missed warning for something, please let me know if you can, and I'll be sure to add it to the list. AO3 comments can be anonymous, and my inbox is open to anonymous comments on Tumblr (see links below), if you are more comfortable communicating that way.
> 
>  **An author's note, if anyone's interested:** I strongly believe in telling stories by drawing on real-life knowledge. John's PTSD symptoms (and, to a degree, Molly's reactions to trauma), especially dissociation, depersonalization, and derealization, are based on my own personal experiences with PTSD, meshed with how I perceive these individuals would react. I also draw from my own experiences as a queer person (once again, modified to fit BBC character traits) to narrate John's transition from denial, to shame, to the beginnings of self-acceptance. I never responded with anger in the way John does, and I was much younger than John when questioning my identities—his experiences are unique for his individual character—but there are some overarching similiarities in the struggle against the internalization of society's negative messages.
> 
> If you'd like to, you can visit me at my personal Tumblr, [redhandsredribbons](http://redhandsredribbons.tumblr.com), or at [fuckyeahmolliarty](http://fuckyeahmolliarty.tumblr.com). Thank you for reading!


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